The next morning saw the four of them sitting round the dining table, munching cereal in suffocating silence. The atmosphere was still rife with a tension. Lottie was clutching Moo tightly in her lap whilst tackling a bowl of Weet-Bix. Her eyes kept sliding curiously across at Catherine, who was making little headway with her own breakfast. She repeatedly pushed her mushy cereal from one side of the bowl to the other, a habit that Ruth often tried to rule out with Lottie. Harry could see that she was itching to encourage the younger woman to eat. He met her gaze with a minute shake of the head, knowing that this would be an incredibly bad idea – not least because Catherine had taken so badly to her. Ruth understood immediately, nodding and returning to her cornflakes.

They were all rather glad when the silence was broken by the shrill ringing of the hallway phone – all except Catherine, who jumped nearly a foot in the air, sending her spoon spinning spectacularly across the table. It narrowly missed the open box of Cornflakes and ended up wedged between two table mats. Harry placed a reassuring hand on her arm whilst Ruth, unable to hide her concern, went to answer the call. Catching the odd snippets of muffled conversation from the hall, Harry stroked his thumb gently up and down his daughter's wrist in what he hoped was a soothing motion. Lottie glanced wide-eyed between her father and sister, then copied Harry's actions. The blonde let out a series of short, panicked pants before shaking her head and shrugging them off.

"I'm okay," she muttered, sounding anything but. "I'm alright."

Harry wondered just who she was trying to convince. Nevertheless, he let go as bidden and Lottie followed suit. The six-year-old was frowning, and he could practically see the little cogs in her brain writing up a long list of questions. Thankfully, Ruth returned before she had a chance to ask them.

"Who was that?" he asked quickly, jumping in before the little girl could open her mouth.

"Work," Ruth said simply, flashing a tired yet resolute smile at Lottie, and motioning for her to keep eating. "Our top benefactor's just decided that he can't come in this afternoon to discuss the new wing as planned, but he can be there within the hour. I'll need to go in early."

"What do you mean 'work'? I thought you ran the Caravan Park?" Catherine jumped in, in spite of herself.

"Daddy runs the Caravan Park. Mummy works at the Museum," Lottie supplied helpfully, shovelling another spoonful of Weet-bix in her mouth.

"Oh."

"Mummy, if you're at work, who will take me to school?"

Harry and Ruth glanced at each other. They hadn't really had a chance to think that far ahead.

"Can Catherine take me?" the little girl pleaded, her ocean eyes lighting up at the prospect of spending some one-on-one time with her new big sister.

"No," Harry ruled firmly. "Catherine's staying here."

His eldest daughter scowled, "I'm a grown woman, Dad. You can't put me on house arrest."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight," Harry replied, as gently as he could.

He hoped Catherine wouldn't tell him to get stuffed and storm off again. For once, luck seemed to be on his side. The blonde continued to make clear her disgust, but made no further comment.

"Well then, it looks like you're both probably staying here," Ruth sighed, nodding in understanding at Harry's apologetic glance. "It's fine. I'll take Lottie with me. It's only an informal meeting. I'll just leave a little early to drop her off at school. Given the short notice, I doubt they'll mind."

"Please can I see the old street?" Lottie pleaded.

The museum boasted a replica of a Beechworth street from its classic Gold Rush era. It had fascinated Lottie from her very first visit, and on the odd occasion Ruth had taken her to work, she'd sit on a bench and happily soak up the aesthetics of the reconstruction. It seemed Lottie had inherited her mother's quiet appreciation for all things historical.

"I think you should just stick with me today, darling," Ruth told her, flashing a subtle glance at Harry. They both dreaded to think what, or rather who, might be prowling the streets of Beechworth.

Lottie frowned, "Why today?"

"What do you mean?"

"You've let me sit on the old street loads of times. Why can't I today?"

"Well..." Ruth stammered. "Because... because I said so. And I've only let you do that in the past if you promised to sit where I could see you."

"Couldn't I do that today, then?" Lottie begged. "Please? If I sit where you can see me?"

Her mother hesitated. Honestly, Harry mused, sometimes their daughter could be as equally stubborn as them. He met Ruth's eyes and gave an infinitesimal shrug as if to say 'where's the harm?' As long as Ruth could keep an eye on her, he didn't see why Lottie shouldn't visit her favourite attraction – if only to stop her bombarding them with questions. He could see the cogs still whizzing away inside her brain. She knew there was something going on. Ruth must have met that same realisation, because she finally relented with a reluctant sigh.

"Maybe. If we have time. But only if I can see you. Deal?"

"Deal, Mummy."

Ollie Kinkaid was annoyed. No scratch that. Annoyed didn't even begin to cover it. He had been awake for nearly forty-eight hours straight, and had spent the best part of the night peering through caravan windows, only for his search to come up empty. Somehow, Catherine Townsend had managed to give him the slip again. Clearly, she was a lot cleverer than he had ever given her credit for.

He had been fond of her. Genuinely fond of her. She had a good sense of humour, passion abounds and was fantastic in bed. But the niggling things he had overlooked before, like her fierce loyalty to her country and her dogged determination to do the 'right thing', were no longer amusing. In fact, they contrasted starkly with his own loyalty to the Horsemen, and his resolve to do the right thing for his people – and that was unforgivable. If he had learnt anything in his years of training, it was that the mission came first. Catherine had endangered his mission and therefore, however fond of her he had been, she now had to be eliminated.

But, damn it, he could only do that if he could find her! How could one documentarian cause so much trouble?! The trail had run cold and all he was left with was the owner of the Caravan Park – the woman with whom Catherine had been seen conversing with yesterday. So now, he was trying to work out how best to gain entrance to the old cobbled cottage at the edge of the park. He'd sooner not cause a scene, but with his low mood and depleting energy levels, he couldn't promise that the owner would remain alive once he got her on her own.

He decided that the obvious solution was to just knock under the pretence of wanting to hire a caravan. He didn't know what Catherine might have told this woman, and until he was surer of the playing field, acting dumb was the best way to go. However, just as he stepped out from behind the bushes, the front door swung open, revealing a petite, dark-haired woman. She was quite plain to his eyes, looking to be somewhere in her mid-forties, and she had a young girl with her. The child couldn't have been any more than five or six, and, besides her age, was the spitting image of the woman. That would be her daughter then. Dressed in a checkered uniform and toting a purple backpack, they were clearly bound for the school run. The little girl waited patiently for her mother to lock up, then clasped her hand and skipped happily by her side down the garden path.

Kinkaid licked his lips, trying to decide what to do. Then a slow, reptilian smile crept over his face. He had an idea.

Harry sat beside Catherine on the sofa, glancing absently around him in search of a conversation starter. They were both nursing mugs of sweet tea in an attempt to relax after the rather tense affair that had been breakfast. They sat in silence, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. The awkwardness had noticeably diminished after Ruth and Lottie's left. That saddened him more than he knew it should.

In the past, when locked in the comforting depths of his fantasy world, he had imagined Catherine and Ruth meeting. And every time, he had pictured them getting along. Ruth wasn't difficult to like: she had a gentle heart, a compassionate smile, a brilliant mind and a strong moral compass. And it was clear that any ill-feeling between the two women was completely one-sided. Part of him wanted to ask Catherine why she had taken against Ruth so, but the other remembered Ruth's words from the night before: 'I think it's probably a rite of passage for daughters to hate their parents' new significant others''. Except he couldn't imagine how anyone could hate Ruth.

"So what do you do now?" Catherine voice suddenly rang out, shaking him from his misery.

"Hmm?"

"On a typical day, once Ruth and Lottie have gone, what do you do?"

"Oh," Harry murmured, fiddling with his mug as he thought of how best to describe his day – preferably without making him sound entirely unproductive. "Well... I generally keep busy – do odd jobs around the house; repair any faults with the caravans; keep up with invoices; sort out guests, as and when they need..."

Catherine frowned, surprise evident in her eyes, "And that's it?"

"That's it," Harry nodded, trying not to feel a little self-conscious at her reaction.

The blonde must have picked up on this because she waved an apologetic hand, "Sorry. Sorry... it's just..." she sighed, shaking her head, clearly still trying to process this entirely new life she had stumbled upon quite by accident. "It's hard to imagine you doing something so low-key and... well... normal."

Harry's lips curled into a tiny smile, "It's certainly different – I'll give you that."

"It's weird because..." she paused, as if trying to work out how best to phrase what she wanted to say. "Because when we were kids, you were always busy, always on the move, always flitting from one operation to the next, without even a little bit of time to sit and reflect and recuperate. And now... now you have nothing but time."

Harry arched an eyebrow. It was rather strange to hear her put it like that, but he supposed she was right. Ever since they had taken over ownership of the Caravan Park and they had settled into this sedate, small-town lifestyle, he had found himself with an awful lot of time on his hands. Time he still didn't always know how to fill.

Catherine sighed a heavy sigh. Harry searched his daughter's pale face and picked up on the telltale bitterness she was clearly fighting so valiantly to hide.

"You do know that I regret not spending more time with you and Graham, don't you?" he murmured, shamefacedly. "If I could do it all over again – "

"You'd probably do the same thing," Catherine finished firmly. "And as much as I hate to say it, you'd probably be right. Because the world needed saving and you were good at saving it."

Harry bit his lip and looked away.

"It's okay, Dad," Catherine shrugged, a little softer, gentler, than before. "I forgave you a long time ago for that. I know now that Mum was just as much to blame for your absence as you were."

"How do you work that out?"

"She told me. Years later. All those birthday parties and other stupid events you missed because she pretty much ordered you not to come. Because she was jealous of how much we both looked up to you. Because she didn't think tyou deserved that kind of attention. Not when she was the one who gave up her job to look after us."

"Jane suffered from very bad post-partum depression," Harry justified, not really sure why he was defending his ex-wife.

"That lasted most of our childhoods?" Catherine muttered sceptically. "No. I think she just enjoyed dishing our vitriol and poison."

Harry had rarely heard his daughter talk about her mother like this. He was fairly used to being on the receiving end of her waspish rhetoric. But hearing Jane spoken about in such a derogatory manner was something new, and actually, it alarmed him more than he thought it would. Catherine and her mother had been thick as thieves for as long as he had known them.

"Did something happen between you and Jane while I was gone?" he asked cautiously.

Catherine shrugged in what was probably supposed to be an airy motion, but actually came out a lot more aggressively than she intended, "No. Only what I just said. She told me some cold, hard truths about your relationship – at your funeral, no less. She got wasted at the Wake and confessed her indiscretions to pretty much the entire room. And for the first time, I realised that she wasn't the martyr she painted herself to be. There were so many times she'd kept you from me and Gray... and now... or at least then, I thought... I wouldn't ever see you again. I wouldn't have a chance to make up for all those lost memories."

"You had nothing to make up for. It was my fault."

"And Mum's."

"Well... yes, maybe your Mum's too," he conceded.

They lapsed into a small contemplative silence. Both took the time to take several, long gulps of tea. Harry found himself strangely unsettled by Catherine's description of his funeral. Her words circled mercilessly around his head, and it took almost all of his self-restraint not to pry. It was an obviously sensitive topic, and a rather bizarre one to discuss whilst very much still alive. After all, how often did one discuss one's funeral after the fact? In the end, however, his self-restraint wavered, only to be overtaken by insatiable curiosity.

"Jane really got drunk at the Wake?"

"As a skunk," Catherine growled. "Turns out, it wasn't only Gray who had an alcohol problem."

Harry's heart sank at that. Not for Jane, though he did pity the depths to which she had crumbled – but for Graham. His beautiful baby boy, who had always been so bright, so sensitive, and so very susceptible to drink and drugs. He had blamed it on himself once. He knew that he had spent years drinking too much whiskey, and wondered if somewhere along the line, Graham had picked up on this. Then, after confessing these deepest, darkest fears to Ruth, she had helped him realise that he couldn't hold himself responsible for all his son's demons. Graham had fallen down the manhole of peer pressure during his late teens and that was when the drink and drugs started. He hadn't really had any influence in his son's life by that point. Of course, he wished fervently that he had. But no. The sad truth was that by then, the two of them had barely even been speaking.

"How is Graham?" he asked tentatively, unsure of whether he was going to like the answer. "Is he okay?"

His fears weren't exactly put at rest by Catherine's suddenly cagey expression. She bit her lip and lowered her gaze to her mug.

"Gray is... well, I think for the first time in years, Gray's actually happy."

He frowned, "Well then, surely that's a good thing?"

"Yes, of course it," the blonde murmured, though there was a wariness to her tone that distinctly set Harry on edge.

"Then why are you giving off all the signals in the known universe that everything isn't okay?"

"I... I'm not. Gray is happy. It's just..."

"What?"

She sighed, flopping backwards into the folds of the sofa and banging her head frustratedly against the squashy fabric, "I honestly don't think it's something I have a right to talk to you about. It's something that needs to be done between you and Gray."

Harry could only blink in bewilderment. All he had asked was how his son was doing. Yet suddenly she was talking in riddles again, and treating the subject of his son's happiness as a subject of great mystery. Surely a simple answer wasn't too much to ask?

"I'm not following, Catherine. Either Graham's okay or not okay. Which one is it?"

"Gray's okay, I promise."

"But?"

Catherine rolled her eyes, "But Gray's just... just been on quite a journey these last few years."

"What kind of journey? Are we talking rehab again?"

"No... well... yes, at first," she muttered, turning redder and redder under his intense scrutiny. He could see that she was growing more and more uncomfortable, but he couldn't bring himself to drop it. If his son was in trouble, he wanted to know. He may have been absent for six years, but never meant he stopped caring.

"At first?"

"But there've been no trips to rehab for the last three years," Catherine hurried on. "Not since Gray made some major changes..."

"What kind of changes?"

Catherine's limited patience finally wore thin and like an overworked pressure cooker, she suddenly blew up, "Can we stop with the twenty questions, Poirot?!"

She slammed her mug down onto the coffee table with a deafening crack, and shot him a death glare that Ros Myers would have been proud of.

Harry sighed, realising that his single-minded search for the truth had probably come off more as an impromptu interrogation. He had made that mistake more than a few times with Ruth, and she didn't take kindly to it either. He supposed it stemmed from all those years of interrogating enemy agents. Once he got in that frame of mind, it was hard to stop. It was a habit that he was working hard to break, and he had made marked progress in recent years. But once in a while – and usually when he was least expecting it – he slipped up.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I got a little carried away."

Catherine's eyes flashed irritably, as if to say 'No shit'.

"You got me worried about Graham, that's all."

The blonde sighed exasperatedly, but some of the tension in her face noticeably mellowed.

"Gray's fine, Dad. I just... need you to keep an open mind and not fly off the handle if and when the two of you next speak."

Her words were no less confusing than before. What exactly was she trying to hint at? Had Graham gone and made some big decision that she suspected he wouldn't approve of? A sideways career move into politics, perhaps? Or joining a cult? Or a spontaneous marriage to a woman he met less than a day before the wedding? There could be any number of things. Graham had always been a rather quiet, young man. Harry had never quite known what was going on in his head. Unlike Catherine's extroverted speak-before-you-think tendencies, Graham kept his cards very close to his chest. He internalised everything; so much so that Harry hadn't even realised the boy had been treading the rickety tightrope of drug addiction until he nearly OD'd at the tender age of nineteen.

Harry stared resignedly at his daughter. He was desperate to push her a little more; to demand to know exactly what she was concealing. But he also knew that pushing her in her already fragile state would be counterproductive and thoroughly unpleasant for them both. Teetering just beneath the surface was the knowledge of what she had endured, and he didn't want to make her life any harder than it already was. So quashing all his natural urges, he simply nodded.

"Okay, fine."

Catherine raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by how easily he had let it drop. Yet she flashed him a grateful smile, nodded, and knotted her hands in her lap as silence descended once more.

"So..." she mumbled. "What do we do now?"

"You can rest," Harry told her, in a tone that broached absolutely no discussion. "You must be exhausted. And I'd be grateful if you could eat something. You hardly ate anything last night – or this morning."

"I'm not exactly in the mood for food at the moment."

"I know. But please? Just a little something, to appease me."

Catherine released a wry chuckle, "I feel like I'm seven-years-old again and you're telling me to eat my vegetables."

"It doesn't have to be vegetables," Harry smirked. "You can even delve into our secret stash of chocolate biscuits, if you like."

The blonde hesitated, her lips curling into a sweeter, easier smile – a smile that lit up her hazel eyes and brightened her entire being. She was so very pretty when she smiled like that.

"Oh, well then," she said, somewhat shyly. "If chocolate biscuits are on offer..."

Harry grinned and rose to fetch the precious goodies. But he was barely up before Catherine spoke again.

"If I'm under strict instructions to vegetate and eat chocolate biscuits, what exactly are you going to do?"

"Oh, I don't know," he shrugged, honestly having no plan but to keep a close eye on her. "I might have a whizz around with the vacuum cleaner."

Catherine laughed outright at that – and oh, how hearing that laugh again warmed his heart.

"You with a vacuum cleaner?"

"Yes. Me with a vacuum cleaner."

"Do you even know which end to blow down?" she asked wickedly, her eyes twinkling in a way that he hadn't seen since she was very young; since she was soiled by awful experiences and sullied relationships. This was the daughter he had known and missed. And whilst he still loved the jaded, heartbroken young woman she was today, it was nice to see elements of his old daughter still lurking underneath.

Harry feigned outrage, "Contrary to popular opinion, I am actually capable of household chores."

"Sure, Dad," she smirked. "It's clear that you really did swap MI-5 for the wild side."

Harry shook his head in mock despair, though truth be told, he was actually rather enjoying this unexpected banter. So he couldn't help the disappointment that pooled in his belly as her impish smile faded not a moment later.

"Actually..." she began hesitantly. "I... I think I might have a better idea than vacuuming."

"Oh, yes?"

She bit her lip and started twisting her hands anxiously in her lap. It took Harry a second to adjust to his daughter's dramatic character shift, but he soon realised why she was so nervous. He watched her shimmy forward, dig down deep into her pocket and extract the small troublesome USB.

"I..." she swallowed. "I want you to take a look at what's on this."

Harry hesitated. He would be lying if he said he wasn't tempted. His inner spook was clamouring to know what exactly they were up against; what the Horsemen were planning and what intel they had gathered from these MI-5 moles. But at the same time, Catherine had already been through so much. She was already inextricably entwined in this business, and he didn't want her even more involved. Ignorance was bliss, and in dire situations, it could be a life saver. She knew the gist of what was on the device, but if she examined it in detail, she would be privy to information that would undoubtedly up the risk she was at. And he wanted to keep her safe.

But then he also knew that they couldn't just bury the device. It indubitably held intel that would give Five a fighting chance at stopping the Horsemen. They would have to get it to the Grid somehow, and if they couldn't do that physically, they might have to relay the information themselves. And to do that, he'd have to look at it. And so once again, Harry Pearce found himself torn between family and country. He glanced uncertainly between the tiny, metal device and his heartbroken yet admirably defiant daughter. Catherine must have realised his indecision, because she quickly rose to her feet and pressed the USB into his lax palm.

"You have to look at it, Dad," she told him firmly, resolute and unafraid for the first time since her arrival. "You weren't the best dad – we both know that – but you were bloody good at what you did. You have to look at that thing, see where the uranium and plutonium is, and put a stop to it. And right now, you're the only person I think I can trust to do that."

Harry sighed. She was, of course, right. For sake of his (former) country, he had to be Harry Pearce, Section Head. Except after years of following Ruth's gentle guidance, he now felt sure he could fight from both sides: he could be a good father and a good spook. He'd do what was necessary for the British people, but he'd also do anything to keep his family safe.

"Alright," he nodded, a startling wave of calmness washing over him as his Section Head persona settled into place. It was like climbing back into a comfy old pair of pyjamas – frighteningly so, for he hadn't known the transition would be quite so easy. "I'll fetch the laptop. Let's take a look at what exactly these bastards are chasing you halfway around the world for."

To Kinkaid's surprise, he didn't end up following mother and child to a school, but to an impressive, white stone building in town, reading Beechworth Public Library and Burke Museum across the top. It was still early and he doubted whether the building had even opened properly for public use yet. He surmised that the woman must work there – or at least know someone who did. But that was okay. More than okay, actually. That was good. He didn't want the public around. People were just another hindrance to the mission. Getting the two females alone in an enclosed space was exactly what he needed.

Luckily for him, security was shockingly awful. As the pair entered through the open doors, without even so much as a key card, Kinkaid was able to slip in at a safe distance behind. He found a small alcove containing an ancient chestnut wardrobe, and stowed himself inside. From his hiding place, he watched as the woman and child approached two men. One was short and dumpy, and wearing a Museum lanyard around his podgy neck. The other was tall, youngish, well-groomed and dressed in an expensive, high-powered suit. Kinkaid experienced an instant surge of dislike towards the latter. He knew immediately what type of a man he was. He practically had 'Rich Fascist Capitalist' tattooed across his forehead; the kind of man who had never had cause to do any real work and yet liked to involve himself in other people's business; sponging off their success to make money for himself. And that was precisely the kind of man that made his stomach roll.

He watched the Museum worker simper over the taller man for a moment, before quickly introducing the woman and then gesturing towards another part of the Museum. The four of them walked in that direction and disappeared out of view. Kinkaid slipped his firearm out from underneath his jacket, undid the safety, and followed.

A short chapter by my standards, as I had to split this and the next chapter in half as it was getting too long. That means the next one is already written and I'll post fairly soon depending on demand. Please forgive any staggering inaccuracies regarding the Burke Museum. I've never been, and this is just what it looks like in my imagination!

I hope all of you are staying safe and well in these times of Lockdown. Much love x