Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and alerted this story: your feedback means a lot to me. As always, the usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this beside my OCs. Thank you again for reading, and please review.
Again, apologies for the lateness of this update; I was admitted to hospital not long after the last update, and am only just back on my feet again. Thank you for bearing with me.
Chapter Five: Fight or Flight
The door closed behind the Chief Superintendent with just a soft click, that made Clara stiffen with apprehension all the same. Folding her hands in her lap, she fixed her attention on the large watercolour hanging above the desk, until her view was blocked by the returning bulk of Tom Mortimer. Her gaze flitted to the windows, even though the blinds had been drawn, and she could feel his gaze boring into her, as though strip searching her with the power of his imagination alone. However, she held her own and turned to face him, rather than shying away like a frightened child.
"I don't know who that kid is, but they fit him up," she informed the Chief Superintendent. Now I think you're in on it, too; she added silently to herself. She could not imagine any other reason for his breaking off their interview to make phone calls in other places, when one sits abandoned on the desk. "I don't want to be blamed either, but I can't let this poor kid go down for it. I'll go to Amnesty International; I'll write to a Human Rights lawyer, I'll … I'll…"
Mortimer help up a hand to silence her. "You've done the right thing," he said, soothingly. "No need for human rights lawyers; no need for Amnesty. I have a much better suggestion."
"Oh, yeah?" she raised a brow and tilted up her chin, a small act of defiance.
Mortimer leaned across the desk, closer to her. "First of all, you need to tell me the names – or rather code names – of the Agents you dealt with, and tell me everything that happened at Thames House. Then, we will need to gather fresh evidence from the murder scene itself, so I propose that you and I go there together and take another look around. See if anything jogs your memory – anything you remember could be a lifeline for the lad we have in custody."
The second suggestion jarred with her. On the surface, it was helpful. But Clara's seen enough episodes of The Bill to know that witnesses are never taken to 'gather evidence', and certainly never alone. "Just you and me?" she asked.
He laughed a forced laugh. "It's not a date, I promise."
He was doing the same thing as MI5: trying to get her on her own; isolating her. Her suspicions deepened even more. "Then you won't mind if a woman PC comes with us? Or any woman. I never get in cars with men I don't know. No matter who they are."
It was there for just a nanosecond, but long enough for Clara to catch it. A flicker of anger darkening the Chief Superintendent's face. He was forcing himself to remain avuncular, though. Another forced laugh, and a smile that did not reach his eyes. "There's no need for that, I'm a Police Man," he reminded her, almost fatherly.
Her suspicions confirmed, Clara forced herself to remain calm and smile her best simple-girl smile. "Yeah, sorry, I'm just so out of sorts because of all this horrible business!" she explained breezily. "I meant no disrespect."
"Perfectly understandable," he replied, his mask firmly back in place and sagging with relief. "Now, tell me about Thames House. Start by giving me some names."
Clara racked her brains for information, but she had genuinely forgotten whom she had spoken to. All she could remember was that it was a man; tall, dark with piercing blue eyes. A younger woman: very short, boyishly cut, blond hair. She remembered the softly lit interview room, the other room with its softly humming monitors and languid lighting. It was a nebulous haze in her sleep deprived memory. She wrung her hands in her lap, kneaded at her eyes and looked imploringly across the desk.
"I'm really not feeling well," she told him, "I think it's my time of the month and my stomach's bad-" she paused, letting the meaning sink in and watching him fluster at the mention of 'women's problems'. "I need to use the ladies," she prompted further.
He looked at her for a moment. "Of course, down the corridor, and second on your left."
She forced a smile as she got up. "Back in two minutes she replied, tremulously.
Once she was out of the door, she picked up her pace and followed the signs for the exit. Still on the ground floor, it was easy enough to retrace her steps back to the Reception area that was still just as crowded with the same people as when she arrived. She dodged the drunks and pushchairs, stepped over the restless toddlers and lunged for the automatic doors – her final barrier to the freedom of the street.
No one had bothered to clean up the alleyway Lucas has parked in while he and Ros were inside the club. Not that he expected it, but it would have helped their hasty getaway if they had. He swore under his breath as he reversed the van into the skeletal remains of a bedframe, hearing the crunch as metal impacted against metal. But trusting that no real damage was done, he pushed the van back out of reverse, and pressed down as hard as he dared on the accelerator, deftly dodging the rest of the detritus and a scrawny cat that lingered in a the dingy back street.
Beside him, in the passenger seat, Ros was a picture of white, compressed-lipped, fury. Her narrowed eyes were glaring fixedly beyond the windscreen at the open road in front of them, cursing fluidly at the other drivers. Then, she changed the course of her ire: "The stupid, hare-brained little bitch!" she spat the words at him, but he dared not interject. "Just what kind of conspiracy nut would do such a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing? I mean, good God, you try to help these people, and this is how they repay you!"
It did sound to Lucas as though their seemingly ordinary witness had had a headful of Ancient Illuminati Aliens and Icke-like lizard shape shifters. However, he was also still focused on the task. "Get on the phone to Malcolm and ask him to search the CCTV channels for any sign of her," he suggested, hoping it didn't sound like an order. "Tell Harry we're on our way to New Scotland Yard, we'll be there in five minutes; Clara can't have gone far."
Ros, to his relief, didn't quibble and reached straight away for her phone. While she briefed the team back on the Grid, he put his foot down. The traffic was easing off after the lunchtime rush, mercifully, they made it in good time. He didn't look at where he was parking the van, it's not as if it were a traceable vehicle and the Wardens be damned. They were out and moving towards the Station, Lucas marveling at the speed Ros made even on those treacherous heels, while the cumbersome workman's boots seemed to be slowing him down disproportionately.
"Lucas, you know what she looks like so search the streets. I'll try inside; I'll call you if I find her."
Seeing the sense in the plan, Lucas nodded his agreement. But while Ros disappeared into the building, Lucas froze for a moment. From there, she could have gone anywhere. He phoned back to the Grid, to see if Malcolm had picked up her movements on CCTV, but it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But, it was worth a try.
"Any sign, Malcolm?" he asked, as soon as the other man's reassuringly calm voice sounded on the other end of the line.
There was a brief pause. "We checked the Police station's CCTV already," he answered, "seeing as we already knew that was where she was going. She's been, and left five minutes ago. She headed towards Caxton Street, presumably keeping away from Victoria Street. So head that way now."
Lucas did as Malcolm suggested, almost sending up a silent prayer of thanks that he'd had the foresight to jump ahead and check the CCTV of Clara's destination. He kept up a running commentary until Lucas reached Caxton Street, but from there the trail ran cold.
"There's a busy shopping precinct that way, Lucas. Try there. Try the cafes and public places. Ruth says she will be biding her time and avoiding anywhere that's either too isolated, or too crowded."
Lucas ended the call and placed his trust in the wisdom of Ruth Evershed. But all around him was a sea of faces, passing by him without the faintest trace of recognition. He picked up his pace again, breaking into a jog and ignoring the ache the boots were causing him as he pounded down the pavements of Caxton Street. He didn't stop looking, scrutinising every passing dark haired, young woman. All the while, his mental clock was ticking, each passing second his quarry was getting further and further away. Then, his phone rings again.
"Lucas North," he pants breathlessly into it.
"Lucas, it's Malcolm. Check inside the Caxton Café now: we picked her up on their CCTV."
Lucas doubled over, clutching the stitch in his side and breathed a sigh of relief as he thumbed the 'end call' button. He allowed himself just a minute to catch his breath, and turned back the way he came. The café was at least two hundred yards back towards the main street, but the positive ID was enough to quell his hesitation. As he ran back, he got on the phone to Ros, detailing his location. However, he wasted no time; he wasn't about to let Clara slip through his fingers again.
She was at the back of the café, speaking in a hushed tone into the public pay phone; a finger jammed in her ear to drown out the noise of the diners and the stereo system. Lucas edged his way in, thankful he was still dressed utterly inconspicuously and came to a rest directly behind her. It was a second before she realised he was there, standing directly over her shoulder. Even when she turned slowly to face him, the recognition was slow in coming.
"Tell your mother you'll call her back," he instructed her, making it clear from his tone that this wasn't a request.
Her eyes widened in alarm. Falteringly, she replaced the receiver. She tried to inch away, but her back was already to the wall as it was. "You," she said, in a low hiss. "Leave me alone, or I'll scream."
Lucas shook his head. "No," he replied. "You won't do that. You'll sit down with me and we'll talk, because you have got this just so wrong!"
She said nothing. She just looked back at him with eyes wide and fearful, her dark gaze flickering over his shoulder as though one of the other patrons were about to ride in to her rescue. But the life of the café ticked ever onwards, as though the presence of the Spook had rendered Clara invisible all but Lucas himself.
Frankie laid the gun down on Charlie's desk, looking at it almost longingly. "You're right," he conceded, laying his hands out flat. "We need the bastard alive, for now."
On the opposite side of the desk, Charlie sipped his tea, seemingly still unfazed. "Only until we get the kid charged with O'Casey's murder," he replied. "But Mortimer is valuable. His demands are getting … unreasonable. I quite agree-"
"And he's got MI-fucking-5 sniffing around our patch!" retorted Frankie, almost choking. "Now he's lost the girl for a second time. He's a liability."
Charlie stretched leisurely, emphasising his lack of concern once more. His new second in command had a point – that couldn't be denied. But having someone on the inside willing to work with them was of inestimable value. If they lost Mortimer now, they could lose their protection, and he was not a man to act precipitously. He had to play for time otherwise, he sensed, he would lose Frankie's faith to keep Mortimer's. That would mean their two units would once again be at war with each other. He drained his tea cup, and reached inside the drawer of his desk. From within, he produced the plastic explosives that were found at O'Casey's flat and placed it next to Frankie's gun. Then, he produced a bag containing detonators.
Frankie's eyes widened. "Where'd you find those?"
"I have my contacts," Charlie answered cryptically, a smile teasing the corners of his lips. "Now, about our wayward Bobby. You want him dead, I accept that, and believe me, I completely understand. But, he means too much to us. We need him. Instead, I think we send him a little message, instead." His eyes fall to the explosives and gun. "A message he won't forget in a hurry."
Frankie smiled, finally giving a sign that he was mollified. "The Met will be too closely covered, so where do you propose putting this bomb?" It was only a minor detail, because all that mattered was that they finally had the means with which they could finally stamp their authority on this city.
"There's a little café just off Dacre Street all the Bobbies go to," answered Charlie. "Don't worry, they'll get the message from there."
They certainly would. Both men lapsed into a natural silence, broken only by the ticking of the great Grandfather Clock sitting in the corner of Weir's office. A strangely soothing, steady noise that took some of the tension from the atmosphere between them. The merging of their 'units' had not gone as smoothly as they had hoped, and more trouble was on the horizon. But now, it seemed, all obstacles could simply be blasted out of their path.
Frankie resolved to get back to his new businesses while the preparations for their next hit were being made. The Emerald was due to re-open with him as the new owner, and he had a Boxing Club to run. All convenient alibis for a bombing. He rose to his feet and shook Charlie's hand, signifying that their meeting was now at an end. "I'll make a few enquiries," he told him, "see if we can't get any more guns, ammo and explosives. Looks like we'll be needing it."
With that, matters were concluded. He was keeping his end of the bargain, and now it remained for Charlie to clear the Met and MI5 mess up.
Ros and Lucas strode back on to the Grid with Clara trailing reluctantly behind them. All around them, work continued uninterrupted. The monitors still purred as the Officers cracked codes, deciphered thinly veiled threats that poured in from all over the country and Harry still paced his office on a contiual cycle of private frustration. Lucas nodded to him through the window as he passed, whereas Ros had her spy blinkers on, and kept her eye fixed on the interview room to the rear of the Grid.
The door to the interview room slid shut, sealing them in and shutting out the noise of the main office simultaneously. Inside, there was just one table with four chairs. Nothing on the pastel shaded walls, nothing to encourage the mind to wander; nothing to distract from whatever was being talked about.
"Explain yourself," Ros stated bluntly, slapping a stack of papers down on the desk in front of Clara as she got seated.
The noise made her jump out of her skin, but Lucas could see that it was only a stack of swatches from when they were undercover as interior decorators at the Emerald Bar. He glanced up at Ros who had taken to pacing the circumference of the room. Then she stopped, crossed to the table and leaned across it, fixing Clara with a steely eye. It was enough to make the girl tremble visibly. Lucas wished he could swap Ros over with Jo, but he knew it was much too far gone for that, now. Ros' blood was up, and she would not be moved now.
"Well!" she snapped when Clara did not answer her immediately.
Clara's gaze darted between Lucas and Ros, as though decided which of them was the least terrifying prospect. "It was that man they arrested," she said, tremulous and wavering. "He had nothing to do with O'Casey's murder, and I thought it was you lot who set him up. I just panicked, and went to the Police. I spoke to Chief Superintendent Mortimer because he's the one in charge of the case, and I told him you were setting someone up. Then he acted all suspicious-"
"Wait!" Ros cut across her. "You told the Chief Superintendent that MI5 had set up an innocent man?"
There was a pause during which Clara turned deathly white and tears sat sparkling in her eyes. Sensing the depth of trouble she was in, all she could manage in reply was a jerky nod of her head. Ros' expression was unreadable. She straightened up and walked out of the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Lucas watched, puzzled, the spot where she had vanished, wondering where she had got to. Seconds later, and a scream of pure frustration could be faintly heard coming from somewhere far off down the corridor. A third, unseen person (but sounding suspiciously like Harry) sniggered loudly in response.
Lucas glanced apologetically across the table at Clara. "Her bark's worse…" then he stopped himself. "Look, you've got it all wrong about us. We're not fixing anything, and we've never heard of this patsy they've got locked up. But I promise, our top analyst will be looking into this."
He was trying to soothe the girl, trying to see things from her perspective. He could only imagine how intimidating it could be for an unsuspecting member of the public to suddenly find themselves at the center of a murder case involving the mafia, the Police and MI5. Ros soon re-entered the room, looking completely calm and serene. She even managed a smile. The venting must have worked.
"Tell us everything," said Ros, her tone even again.
Clara took a moment to compose herself with deep, cleansing breaths and dried the tears that had fallen from her eyes. Then, she told them everything from the moment she had heard of Alexei Amalyev's arrest, right up until Lucas had intercepted her at the café off Caxton Street. She even produced the slip of paper she had jotted down Mortimer's name on, making sure she had it right and then showed it to Ros, as though it were evidence.
The silence that followed seemed to draw on interminably. At length, Lucas and Ros pushed back their chairs and left the room together. Each unsure of what to make of what they'd heard. Ros made sure the door to the interview room was properly shut – as much to keep Clara in as to keep their voices out.
"What do you make of that, then?" asked Ros.
Lucas shrugged. "Not sure. But get it all checked out. Something's not right here."
"What about the scapegoat?"
"Better speak to Harry."
Ros let her head fall back against the door. "This day is never going to end, is it?"
Lucas smiled in an attempt to bring a last minute ray of sunshine into Ros' day. Under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.