Author's Note: thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, the response has been terrific, and it is all gratefully received, so thank you. The usual disclaimers apply: I own none of this. I hope people enjoy this chapter, and please review. Thank you!

Chapter Four: The Business Associates.

Sparky the Spaniel strained on his leash to choking point and pulled along his exasperated owner, Clara Walsh, in his wake. She felt as though she were the one being taken for a walk, rather than the other way around. But, it was the same route they walked every evening, and she knew he was eager to get to the water. They reached the stretch of abandoned Docklands just as the sun set, later than usual and Clara was keen to get home before sundown. The derelict buildings, rusting ships still bobbing in the old ports and the shadowy cranes gave her the creeps after dark. With that in mind, Clara relented and pulled with all her might to bring her wayward dog to heel, and then knelt down to set him free.

He was off like a dart, snuffling through the undergrowth cocking his leg at all his favourite tree stumps and picking up the alluring musk of canines past. Clara paused in the pathway to wrap the lead around her wrist and get her breath back for a minute. Work had run on late, meaning she had arrived home to find Sparky in a frenzy of stored up energy with his lead already hanging from his saliva dripping jaws – her dog was ever the optimist.

After a full minute, she realised Sparky had vanished and, eager to catch him up, she set off down the path again. It was then that she noticed the van parked on the waste land near the docks themselves. Odd. She had never known anyone venture to that part of the docklands, before. Even other dog walkers preferred the gentrified, cultivated areas where they could stop for a coffee. She veered off the path and into the thicket of trees where she had last seen her dog just as a loud bang shattered the stillness of the evening air. In the distance, Sparky yelped in alarm and came crashing back towards her through the undergrowth, cowering behind her legs.

"There there," she soothed him, scratching behind his ears. "It was just a car back-firing. Probably some old rust bucket. Silly dog."

For the dog the shock was a momentary, fleeting thing, and he soon darted off again to resume his scenting and sniffing. But Clara had become uneasy. Seconds after the noise, which truthfully to her sounded more like a gunshot, the van's engine revved into life and pulled away after she caught a small glimpse of a man dressed in a black suit climbing into the back. She froze, and watched until it had disappeared. Unconsciously, she had already reached into her jacket pocket for her mobile phone for reassurance.

It was Sparky's furious barking that brought her back to her senses. She pushed her way through the last of the bushes and emerged onto the banks of the Thames to see him swimming in the dirty water. Any minute now, he would turn around, swim ashore and come dashing up to her. Then, the wretched animal would shake himself down and shower her in the acrid waters of the Thames.

"Oh no, Sparky, bad boy!" she admonished pre-emptively. "Not the water, Sparky, no!"

It was futile. She could barely see him in the rapidly failing light, and his barking had ceased as quickly as it had begun. But as she squinted through the gloom, she could see he had something clamped in his jaws as he swam ashore. Whatever it was, it wasn't so very far out and Sparky was soon back on the banks of the river, still dragging the mystery object.

Back on dry land, Sparky stopped and barked loudly again, his tail wagging furiously at the new game he'd embroiled himself in. The sight didn't register with Clara at first. Her first thought was that it was a shop mannequin. Or a dummy used in the life saving exercises that were sometimes carried out on the river, one that could simulate a drowning man. But there was something about the all too real way in which the waterlogged limbs were spread out, something about the all too real shape and contours of the body that told her she was being naïve.

With her heart in her throat, Clara walked slowly, mobile phone clenched in her sweating hands, towards the corpse. "Oh, Sparky," she whispered, not even daring to blink, "oh my God. Oh dear God."

Lucas awoke the next morning to find his jawline dark with the threat of an imminent beard. He put the radio on, left it beside the open bathroom door and happily hummed along to the Oasis song being played as he shaved closely. The track slowly faded into an early morning news broadcast, and Lucas' attention began wandering ahead, pondering his imminent breakfast as the news anchor's words drifted into the bathroom:

"Police have confirmed that the body found in London's east end by a young woman out walking her dog is that of missing Nightclub owner, Darren O'Casey..."

Lucas froze mid razor stroke and listened with rapt attention.

"...twenty-nine year old Mister O'Casey moved to London from Dublin fifteen years ago, and was engaged to be married to the twenty-seven year old woman found murdered two days previously. The cause of death was said to have been a single gun-shot wound to the head, although the victim had also sustained severe injuries from earlier incidents, raising concerns that East London is facing a resurgence in gang warfare..."

"Shit!" Lucas cursed.

He rushed the rest of his shave, carelessly splashed on some Cologne and dashed into the living room where his phone still rested in his jacket pocket. Scrolling through the names and numbers, he came to a halt at Jo Portman and hit the call button. While Jo's phone rang, Lucas drummed his fingers on the handrail in impatience. Eventually, a husky, half-asleep voice answered:

"This better be bloody good, Lucas. It's still night time."

"Well, rise and shine because I need you to do something for me," he said, trying to inject a little enthusiasm into his tone in the hope that it would rub off on Jo.

It didn't. "Now?" she groaned down the line at him. It was followed by an ill-stifled yawn.

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, Jo," he tried to assure her. "A woman has found O'Casey's body and already been to the Police. We need to find out who she is and bring in her in before anyone else does. It's urgent."

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling static on the line.

"Isn't that the Gangster guy?" she asked, but without waiting for an answer, she added: "Shit! I'm on it, Lucas. Don't worry."

"One more thing," he said before she could hang up, "I'm asking you because I think you will be... more easy going with her. I don't know how young, but she's young, and I want her handled with care."

A moment of silent understanding passed between them: don't go all Ros Myers on her.

"No worries, Lucas. I won't let anything bad happen."

"Thanks, Jo. I appreciate it."

The call ended, leaving Lucas alone once again in the silence of his flat. He decided to skip breakfast, substituting it instead with a cup of tea strong enough to dance a donkey on before he finally dressed for the day ahead. He selected clothes like he selected new identities; the Lucas North tormented by his past made the smooth transition to Lucas North, the self-assured MI5 Officer, calm and even handed even the most demanding of crises. It was like the donning of invisible armour, it was something to hide in to get him through the day ahead.

The silence in Charlie Weir's Office was a natural one, during which his two companions sipped at Earl Grey tea as they mulled over the day's news. The only sound was the occasional chinking of china cup tapping delicate china saucer, backed up by the rhythmic ticking of an old Grandfather Clock pushed against the back wall. The air was heavy with the smell of wax resin, the polish used to shine every surface in the room. He raised a brow as his cleaner entered the room after a soft knock on the polished oak door, poking his head coyly around the aperture.

"Not now, Alexei, we're busy," he informed the young man, not unkindly. He waved the young man away with a smile and a hand raised in farewell.

Once the door closed again, Charlie turned back to the other two. Sat on the opposite side of his desk was Frankie Morris, looking pale and drawn after a long night. The only thing that betrayed his nerves was the tremble in his hand as he raised the cup to his lips.

"You were saying, Frank, there was a problem with last night's operation?" asked Charlie, his tone even. There was no point in panicking, so he measured his words and trod softly.

"We were seen," replied Frankie. "Only by some woman out walking her dog. But she got a good long look at me, she did." He broke off and turned to the third man in the room. "I trust your boys can do something about that, Tom."

Tom gave a small start, as though Frankie had jolted him out of some deep daydream. "She's going to be interviewed later today; her name's Clara Walsh and I think you worry too much," Tom explained. "Just give me the murder weapon and someone small, someone who has no family here, someone who won't be missed, and I'll make sure they go down for it -"

"But what about the girl?" Frankie cut him off, his voice quavered with irritation, now. Frown lines were stark on his brow.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Like I was saying," he began, pointedly, "give me someone small, and I can convince the girl it was him she saw. Then when this is over you can do what you like with her. No one will know, they'll think she's in witness protection. It'll bloody cost you, mind."

Charlie watched the exchange as if it were a tennis match, his grey eyes darting from one to the other until he felt it was time to intervene.

"Thank you, Chief Superintendent," he interjected, cutting off Tom's latest riposte to Frankie's long list of worries. "I'll make sure you get what you need, and we're all very appreciative of your cooperation."

"And a token of your appreciation?"

"Ah, yes," Charlie reached into the top drawer of his desk, rummaged around until he found his cheque book and a fountain pen. All back handers came from the company account and made payable to another company account – no names mentioned, nothing personal. He completed the cheque by signing with a flourish and handed it over with a winning smile. "See to it that no other witnesses come forward, and we can get this case, and Roisin Hicks', closed and consigned to History as quick as you may."

The transition was supposed to be smooth. The girl disposed of to beat O'Casey back into line, but he hadn't played ball. Then O'Casey was disposed of, the merge almost completed, and now an investigation that had already attracted public attention. Even with a Chief Superintendent on board and looking the other way, it was getting messy. Tom Mortimer, however, seemed happy. He glanced at the cheque with an appreciative smile before tucking it into his shirt pocket.

"Will that be all, Gentlemen?" he asked, already rising to his feet. "I have other business to attend to."

The other two, Frankie and Charlie, nodded. As the door opened, Charlie noticed Alexei the cleaner still hovering behind the door. Listening in? Quite possibly. But Charlie wasn't worried; he never worried. But he did send the young man down to the bar to begin preparations for opening up lest he should overhear anything else inconvenient.

Once they were alone again, Charlie poured himself another cup of tea, ignoring the fact that it had gone almost stone cold.

"Now he's fucked off we can talk real business," he said to Frankie, offering him another cup. "Tell me, it must have been hard disposing of your former right hand man, like that?"

Frankie laughed mirthlessly. "All for the greater good," he remarked wryly. "He would never have come on board. He had ideas of his own, and let's just say they wouldn't have benefited you and your men."

Charlie steepled his fingers contemplatively. "I heard he was planning on letting some of his old friends in Ireland blow up one of my pubs. It would look like a strategic hit for them, but really it would have been a warning to me – everyone's a winner," he recounted thoughtfully, his voice smooth and resonant, did not betray even a flicker of anger. "Clever boy that one. You'll miss him, I think."

Frankie shrugged. "Look, he had friends. Friends who may prove … problematic."

"You mean there is still opposition to our firms merging?"

"The perception is that you and I will be running east and south London together, reaping the best of the harvest and leaving only the chaff for everyone else," explained Frankie. "Some of Darren's old friends think they'll be frozen out because of their, er, former associations. Others think the East End will become the lesser partner to the South. Most are with us, but those who aren't are the ones we may need to watch."

"Watch?" Charlie repeated with a dry laugh. "Stop fretting, Frankie. We'll deal with the opposition. We have our ways. But, first things first, I need a patsy for our murder, and I think I already have someone in mind."

Frankie looked far from mollified, but he got up anyway, sensing his audience with the King of the South side was over. "I'll sound out the others in the east end, then," he explained by way of excusing himself.

Charlie looked up from where he'd just hunched over some paperwork. "All right then," he replied, extending his hand to shake. "Send in Alexei when you see him."

Charlie watched as Frankie got to the door, his hand grasping the handle, then called him back again. "Oh, and one more thing, hang on to that plastic explosive you found at O'Casey's flat. It might come in useful."

Frankie arranged his face, smoothing out the surprise. "Oh, you know about that," he said, "well, we've no detonators. But perhaps we can sort that out."

Charlie smiled broadly as he reclined in his seat, weighing up his new business parter from top to toe. "Quite," he finally replied. He was trying to keep secrets from him, and they hadn't even finished the transaction yet. It didn't bode well.

Breaking the encryption on the computers had been child's play for Malcolm. Lucas watched, transfixed, as he tapped away at the keyboard clicked a few icons and broke the hard drives wide open. It all seemed to happen so fast, but disappointment was hard on the heels of their success. Ruth hovered nearby their bay, looking over Malcolm's shoulder as files were opened up, records scrutinised for anything unusual. But all they found were business transactions. Occasionally, Lucas would point at the screen, ask what it was, only to find more business transactions.

"He's not even storing any porn on there," Ruth observed mildly.

Lucas and Malcolm both jerked around in their seats to look at her agape.

"What?" she defensively retorted.

"Porn?" Lucas repeated, eyebrows raised in a fine arch. "You sound disappointed."

Ruth lightly swatted him with the papers she clutched. "Less of that," she chided, but smiled all the same. "What I mean is, a man of that age, you'd expect it. But there is literally nothing on there. Just records of his businesses."

"Well, that's a start," said Malcolm. "Anyway, he must have cleaned the hard drive only recently. Or installed a new Operating System, because it's an old model, just with nothing on it. Laptop was the same."

Lucas decided to leave them both to it. He passed the pods, exiting the Grid and walking outside Thames House altogether. He looked up and down the busy streets outside, searching for any sign of either Ros or Jo. All he could see was the steady two-way stream of Office workers hurrying for their lunch breaks, a queue backed up cars snaking up the street like slugs in battle formation and the confusion of everyday life being played out on the open boulevards and side-streets of the vast, intricate city. A drunk is ejected from the pub across the road; an elderly lady is jostled along the busy pavements by the frantic crowds and drivers holler out of their open windows. But no sign of Jo or Ros.

He rubbed his eyes and wondered where they could have gotten to. They had a team meeting any moment, called by Harry to thrash out a plan of action for the Hicks and O'Casey cases. Jo, he knew, should have returned hours ago with their only witness. Ros had wanted her interviewed by that afternoon, and this latest setback would set the primer on Ros' infamous temper at a dangerous degree.

A bank of grey, pendulous clouds, heavy with the threat of rain, passed the sun and smothered its lukewarm rays. Lucas shivered in the shadows and was about to turn back towards Thames House when the taxi pulled over, and the lengthy leg of Ros Myers appeared from the open back door, swiftly followed by the rest of her. Her expression reflected the sudden change in weather perfectly.

"You would not believe the morning I've had," she muttered furiously as she thrust a twenty pound note at the driver before crossing to Lucas. "Not a single word from anyone."

"No one talked?" he asked, stepping backwards into the porch of Thames House to avoid the first drops of rain.

Ros followed him in, jerking her head forwards and gesturing for him to lead the way. "Not a soul," she replied. "I tried all the neighbours, the people in the next street and then tried the staff at O'Casey's boxing club. They all know, but no one's talking."

She strode ahead of Lucas, making him jog to keep up with her. "It's not entirely unexpected," he reasoned. "We knew already that these people wield a lot of power in the area, it's small wonder they're all so scared."

Ros merely tutted and carried on striding through the building until she reached Section D, but she barely broke her pace as she thrust the door open. "It feels like they're already several laps ahead of us and we're not even off the bloody starting blacks, Lucas," she said, raising her voice once there was no one to over-hear except for other members of their unit. "They're outsmarting us, Lucas, and all they are is a bunch of Gangster's who's reach has just exceeded their grasp."

With that, she dropped her handbag at her desk and made for the drinks machine. Lucas watched her as he returned to his own desk, almost bumping into Ruth as he did so. She teetered, righted herself before she fell, and apologised even though it was he who should have been looking where he was going. He grinned as he pointed it out, and by the time he had made amends to Ruth, Ros was back in place, and more importantly to him, the doors opened again, revealing Jo with a young woman. She was barely five foot five, with long dark hair that fell well past her shoulders and wide brown eyes. But the girl's skin was waxen, her eyes lined with dark circles, clearly she was exhausted. Even Jo looked harassed, her close cropped hair dishevelled, and her gaze darted about the Grid as though she expected to enter a different room in a different building.

Lucas jumped up and waved her over; Jo responded with visible relief, and pointed him out to the new girl who looked up at him only briefly. Jo was soon whisking her away to an interview room out the back.

"Wait there," Jo mouthed to Lucas as she passed.

Although concerned, Lucas waited patiently as Jo got the girl settled in and headed straight for the drinks machine. He looked across the room at Ros, who had also noticed the newcomer to the Grid. She looked at him, her expression completely blank, and gave a shrug. When Jo returned to him, she took him aside rather than into the interview room.

"That's our witness," she said, confirming what he had already suspected. "But listen, they really didn't want to let her go."

Lucas frowned. "They probably hadn't finished interviewing her."

Jo shook her head. "No, it was more than that. The Chief Superintendent himself showed up and started creating obstructions. He was delaying things, I am sure of it."

Lucas mulled it over for a full minute, racking his brains for hidden meanings in the behaviour of a man he'd never met. But he was aware of the witness still waiting for them, beside herself with worry over what was happening to her.

"It's probably nothing, you know how bureaucratic the Police are, but tell Ros anyway," he said, erring on the side of caution. "What name did you give her?" He then asked, referring to their witness.

"Vicky Holt," she replied, "and I told her you're Max Eddison, and you're a very nice man who won't get ratty every time she mentions her dog is all alone and her boss will be going crazy."

Lucas forced a smile. "That's awfully good of you. Shall we?"

Jo nodded, and set off back towards the interview room. Lucas, however, diverted at Harry's office and stuck his head around the door.

"Knock!" barked the Section boss.

"Sorry," chimed Lucas, not sounding it in the slightest. "Look, there's been a slight delay in getting our witness home. I think we may have to delay that team meeting."

Harry spun round in his seat to face Lucas, and his expression was not pleasant. Like a bull dog licking piss off a thistle. Not for the first time in his life, Lucas regrets not being Ruth.

"Every time you come to me about this case, it's going wrong, getting worse and being hit by new and imaginative setbacks, Lucas. This is not acceptable..."

Harry's stream of complaint followed him out of the office, but Lucas glanced back over his shoulder before he disappeared completely: "Thanks, Harry, I knew you'd understand."

He passed Ros, who glanced up at him and winked before looking back down at the analysis Ruth had just handed her. His heart skipped a beat as he snatched up a copy of the Official Secrets Act as he passed Malcolm's desk.

"Look, I dunno what this is now," the girl said in a rush as Lucas closed the interview room door behind him. "but I can't tell you any more than I just told the police. I saw almost nothing. Just a man in a suit getting in a big, black, Vauxhall van. Nothing else. I don't know how many times I need to repeat myself."

Jo sat beside her, her large blue eyes sympathetic as she listened to the spiel obviously for the umpteenth time. She acknowledged the girl's words with a mechanical nod.

"Max," she said to Lucas, "this is Clara. Clara, Max is going to be helping me take care of you."

Lucas hope his smile was a winning one as he extended his free hand towards the girl. She took it, but hesitantly and briefly. Up close, he could see that she was shaking. She could barely hold her tea cup. But the interview room was different to the interrogation suite. The lighting was subdued, the furnishing softer. It was temperate, and calming. Lucas hoped it worked its fen g-shui magic fast.

"First up, Clara," he said, "I'm more interested in whether this man saw you."

Clara looks at him, then at the paper in his hand. "Yes, he looked right at me. Put the fear of God into me."

"In that case, you must sign this," he replied, sliding the Official Secrets Act across the surface of the Formica topped table towards her. "Then we need to establish exactly what happened and when."

Clara turned her fearful gaze to the paper in front of her. "The Official Secrets Act," she repeated the words slowly, and looked back up at Lucas. Jo handed her a pen from her shirt pocket. Clara took it, trembling even more. "I don't know nothing," she repeated, her voice quavering with nerves. "What does this mean? Does this mean I can't go home? Can I phone my Mum? She'll be worried, and my dog; someone needs to walk my dog..."

Jo covered Clara's hand with her own, gently and reassuringly. "It's all right, Clara. We're MI5; everyone who comes here needs to sign this. We'll make sure the dog is looked after."

Clara picked up the pen, and gave one last look towards the door as though some unseen cavalry might arrive at any minute to help her out. The moment spun itself out, and nothing happened, no one came. Then, she looked back at the Act, and slowly put pen to paper, and signed along the dotted line.