Hello, all! Thanks so much to those of you who managed to find this story even though State of Play doesn't have a category on this site. The reviews were a welcome surprise!

I wanted to update this once more before my rapidly approaching adventure! Off to New York City to see Frank Turner on Sunday, and then down to Virginia for a few days to wreak havoc with some fandom buddies. Hope you guys like this one- it's the last of the T rated chapters, I can happily reveal. ;)

The Arrangement
Chapter 3

Monday morning saw Della lingering in bed, unable to gain the motivation to begin her work week. All she could seem to think about was the feeling of Bell's hand touching hers. Revisiting that frozen moment in the café, Della had thought and dreamt numerous scenarios of what could have happened if that kindly little old man hadn't been there to retrieve the forgotten document from the floor. Indeed, her wildly active imagination had gotten quite adept at blocking out everyone other than William Bell and herself.

He was not what you might call traditionally handsome. He was a bit on the bulky side, with a slightly rough complexion and an ever-present frown on his face. Della had stopped kidding herself, however, because in other ways the man was absolute sex on legs. Long legs, which accompanied a solid six-foot-something form. He had tremendous presence, distorting the space in a room to fit him just by being in it, although that might only be how a captivated Della saw him. Those mercurial blue eyes with their sensual long lashes were the absolute last straw, and she shivered as she recalled the feeling of his slightly calloused thumb tracing over her hand with deceptive gentleness. One tiny touch and Della wanted everything, wanted him almost painfully- but she wouldn't have him, because he was married and she wasn't going to be the other woman. She just wasn't. Definitely not.

Managing to drag herself out of bed and through her morning routine, Della was stationed at her desk by eight o'clock. The document from Bell was burning a metaphorical hole in her pocket, and she wanted to get onto some sources as soon as the day was old enough to start making phone calls.

Cal McCaffrey drifted in a few minutes later, cradling a cup of coffee. "What's got you looking so determined this early in the morning? Must be something pretty tasty…" He peeked over her shoulder.

Della handed Cal the paper as she continued sifting through some related files on her hard drive. "DCI Bell put this in my hands yesterday. It belonged to a murder victim with ties to Clarke. Bell's asked me to see if I can find out where it came from."

"You met Bell on a Sunday?" Cal pursed his lips teasingly, looking at her over the top of the paper. "Talk about mixing business with pleasure."

"Cal, this could break the story wide open."

Cal smiled knowingly. "Yeah but you never work on Sunday. It's practically your golden rule."

Blushing, Della avoided eye contact. "Look, I already get enough teasing from Dan. I don't need to hear it from you too."

"Yeah? Well maybe Dan is cleverer than I thought."

"If you're not going to help me, you can piss off."

Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, Cal relented and shrugged off his coat. "Okay, okay. Have you drummed up a list yet? Let's see what we can find."

Working through the morning, the two were able to identify numerous links between the murdered man, Pyotr Ivanov, and the import company supposedly funded by Edward Clarke. It was starting to look like Ivanov was the glue that held the whole mess together, but there was still something they were missing. It appeared that Clarke was making regular payments into Ivanov's account, presumably for services rendered. Cal had gone out to shake up some leads, and returned to the newsroom around four in the afternoon looking rather smug.

"It's not Clarke."

Della looked up from some unrelated copy she'd been working through for tonight's looming deadline, greeting her colleague with a stunned expression.

"Lucky coincidence. I have an old friend from uni who does premier accounts for Barclays- Sheldon Adams. He's a complete bastard. Totally bent and always willing to spill the beans, for a price."

"Oh? And you trust this person because…?"

Cal leaned against his desk. "Because I got him out of a major jam a few years back, and he owes me. According to him, Ivanov did receive regular cash infusions from the account listed on this sheet. But it wasn't Clarke."

Della waved an arm, exasperated. "How is that possible? It's Clarke's account!"

"Sheldon oversees all the high profile accounts at the Marylebone branch, which happens to be the one Clarke uses. He handled the transactions himself, and surveillance footage confirms it. You run along and tell Chief Inspector Bell that the person he needs to speak with is Mrs Clarke."

It took just a few short seconds to digest this revelatory information, and Della was on the phone to Bell before Cal made it halfway to Cameron's office.

xxxxx

So that was it. Three phone calls and one headache inducing interview with Laura Clarke had the whole thing more or less wrapped up, tedious formalities notwithstanding. Bell shook his head, placing the receiver back onto the cradle. Sometimes what looked like a crime of major proportions turned out to be nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Ivanov had been a small-timer who wanted to play with the big boys, and he'd gotten himself in good with a trophy wife who was both bored enough to have an affair and callous enough to play games with her husband's money. The real Russian mob would want nothing to do with something this tacky and disorganized, so they'd done away with Ivanov as if he were merely gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe. They were even kind enough to leave just enough evidence, like the irrelevant guns in the dumpster, so that the Met or the press would eventually work it out.

Bell felt like a first class donkey that got lured up a blind alley only to have the dangling carrot yanked cruelly of reach. He would now have the unhappy task of mopping up the remaining mess, but it could wait until tomorrow. Clarke's wife might be a vapid cow, but she hardly constituted a significant flight risk with the minimal charges she would actually be facing. He sighed, leaning back in the chair with his hands folded over his abdomen. In all honesty, if she decided to bugger off to the Mediterranean on her husband's yacht it might actually save him some paperwork.

Another day done and dusted, another non-starter of a case, and tomorrow there would be just as many guns out on the streets as there were today. God, he needed a drink. Bell peered up at the clock, making a quick decision. It was only seven o'clock, and he owed somebody a curry.

xxxxx

The Masons Arms was the preferred public house of the Herald staff, especially when they'd just put a story to bed. The piece on Clarke hadn't turned out to be as explosive as expected, but it was still a job well done and proof positive that journalists were sometimes just as adept at solving crimes as the police. Natural curiosity and tenacious investigation were traits often shared by both professions, and reporters were happy to do the dirty work when law enforcement ran up against too much red tape. Ingenuity was a gift best not wasted.

Sipping at her wine as conversation flowed freely around the small table, Della reflected. Bell's thanks had been terse but sincere. His gruff response was almost certainly down to the dissatisfying nature of the result. She didn't envy him in this situation- her deadline had passed and the story had gone to print, ready to be consumed by a largely uninterested public first thing in the morning. The Met's case, on the other hand? Nothing so simple. Tracing a finger around the rim of her glass, Della wondered how many hours or even days Bell would have to spend crossing the t's and dotting the i's.

She was taken entirely by surprise, therefore, when she noticed Pete and Cal smirking stupidly at her. Scowling at them in return, Della leaned across to Helen and made a small disapproving noise. "Arrgh. What's the matter with those two? Have I got something on my face?"

Helen shook her head, clearly fighting to supress a smile of her own. Eyes fixed to a point beyond Della's left shoulder, the older woman pointed discreetly. "You appear to have a visitor."

Della shifted in her seat, searching the busy room. She quickly found the object of everyone's interest, eyes locking onto Bell's tall form over by the door. He was looking a bit lost with his hands in his pockets, slowly scanning his surroundings with a classic copper's patience. Ignoring Pete's inebriated giggles, Della departed from the table, grabbing her handbag automatically.

A half smile flickered across his face as he sighted her. "Hi. Foster told me where I might find you."

"Hello," she replied, "what brings you all the way down here?"

Bell shifted from one foot to the other, studying the garish carpet for a protracted moment. "Two things really," he began, eyes flickering up to hers and away again. "A strong desire for a large Scotch being one. As for the other, I seem to recall owing you a curry."

The look he was giving her, oddly shy and entirely too enticing, was making it difficult for Della to remember why this was in no way a good idea. She managed to stutter out a response. "You don't have to do that."

Della could get no relief as he continued to look earnestly into her eyes, shaking his head slightly. "But I want to. As a way of saying thanks. Come on, my shout."

"I…" Logic said no, but her mouth seemed determined that the correct answer was yes. She surrendered. "Okay. Did you have someplace in mind?"

"Yeah, it's not far. We can walk if you like."

"Alright, let's go." She was already wearing her denim jacket, so she saw no need to return to the table and face the teasing of her colleagues.

Bell glanced over at the other Herald reporters, all of whom were pretending not to watch their departure with avid interest. He jerked his head in their direction. "Don't you want to let that lot know you're off?"

Walking toward the exit, Della shrugged and threw him a small smile as she looked back to make sure he was following. "They're journalists. Let them puzzle it out."

xxxxx

It was a nice restaurant, if not quite as authentic as the venerable curry houses of Brick Lane. The journey from the pub had been fairly quiet but not awkward as they walked side by side along the edge of Regent's Park. Della had finally gotten her curry, and he had gone on the waiter's recommendation and chosen the daily tandoori special. Now they were sitting at a table in the corner enjoying an after dinner drink, Scotch for him and another glass of light bodied red wine for Della.

Valiantly he tried not to stare as she absently picked at a leftover piece of naan. The sight of her delicate fingers only made him remember the soft texture of her skin when their hands had touched and the frightening cocktail of emotions that contact had invoked. Bell wasn't sure if he was ready for this- it wasn't his ever growing level of physical attraction towards Della Smith that worried him, but rather the affectionate feelings that went along with it. He was almost certain she felt it too- he was a detective after all- but their professional positions and a never ending parade of distractions and inconveniences had made it difficult to grow a personal relationship. Bell could count on one hand the number of conversations they'd had which weren't at least partly work related.

"So what will happen to Mrs. Clarke now?"

Case in point, he thought to himself. Leaning his arm on the table, he was careful not to encroach too obviously on her personal space. "Oh, just a slap on the wrist most likely. Or a nice hefty fine she can pay with her husband's money."

Della tilted her head, looking adorably outraged. "A man died! And all those guns Ivanov smuggled in, whether he was working with the mob or not- she was helping him! Don't you think she should be held responsible?" She took a large sip to finish off her cherry-colored wine, tongue peeking out as she pulled the glass away from her lips.

He released a small chuckle, shaking his head. "What I think doesn't matter. The law doesn't allow for shades of gray, Della."

They looked at each other for a few moments, without speaking. Bell could feel the ever present tension that existed between them creeping back in, but he couldn't bring himself to fill the charged space with evasive small talk. Anticipatory feelings made his throat feel tight as he thought about what it would be like to kiss her, maybe taste the wine she'd been drinking as their tongues tangled and stroked. Would Della channel the spark of her personality into a kiss like that?

She stared back, and he felt her eyes burning a trail from his lips to his neck as he swallowed down the last of his own drink. The discreet and efficient waiter chose this moment to return with the check.

"Well, I suppose I should be getting home. Fresh start on a new story tomorrow. Lord knows what Cameron will have me running after next, so I'd best get lots of sleep."

Bell dealt with the dinner bill and stood to help her back into her jacket. It was the polite thing to do, but he did not feel at all like a gentleman when he allowed one hand to brush the hair back off her denim-clad shoulder as he assisted her. "My car's not far. Fancy a lift?"

They were standing close, yet he couldn't be sure if the blush on her cheeks was caused by the alcohol or by him. She bit her lip, gazing at the knot of his tie. "I only live a few blocks from here. Would be silly to backtrack."

He nodded. "Come on then. I'll walk you."

xxxxx

Hmm, so nice of him to offer! Gosh, I certainly hope they don't run into any obstacles on their way to Della's place... bad weather, for example? Yes I do love to tease actually, funny that you should ask! :P