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Chapter Six: The Longest Day

Harry Pearce glanced at his watch: eight in the morning and, no doubt, he was the first to arrive on the Grid. Up early to avoid the morning rush hour, he entered Thames House and initially ignored the hurried clip of high heel shoes that fell into step behind him. At least until he held open a door, an act of chivalry some may consider old fashioned, and turned to find Ruth hastily catching him up. He should have known she would have caught the early bus. A smile of recognition, possibly even affection, lit up her face when she saw him and he tried to match it as she ducked under his arm, stepped through the door and onto the Grid.

As they exchanged the usual morning pleasantries, he scanned the room, calculating that they had roughly fifteen precious minutes alone together before the others began to trickle in. However, caught in the moment, he seemed to find himself tongue-tied. For a long moment, the two simply stood and looked at each other, as though each waited for the other to speak first. Harry pulled himself together:

"So, another day at the fun factory begins in earnest?" he finally quipped, flashing her a grin.

Her expression clouded, causing his early morning optimism to flag.

"Curb your enthusiasm, today will involve the Home Secretary."

Absorbing that gem of information, he led the way onto the Grid to fix some tea before the others arrived. It had become their wont to share a pot in his office as they briefly went over the day's business together – a habit he was keen to encourage. Still, it was almost otherworldly to see the Grid so devoid of life; to see the computers blank and silent, the phones failing to ring and the buzz of chatter all on suspension. It was as if they were the last two people alive on earth.

He rolled his eyes at the mention of the Home Secretary, however. "Am I going to have to abase myself before him?" he asked, unsure of whether he really wanted the answer to that. "If so, I want a shot of brandy in that tea!"

Ruth hesitated, distracted herself with safely transporting their teacups to Harry's office as he hung up their overcoats. "It's not that bad, Harry," she gently chided him as she took her seat. "But it is going to be worth it. You see that man they set up for the murder of Darren O'Casey?"

"I forget his name, but I know who you mean. Anything interesting on him?"

Ruth leaned towards him, elbows braced on the surface of the highly polished desk. "As it happens, yes," she answered. "His name's Alexei Amalyev; only nineteen and from the Ukraine. He moved here only a year ago. There's nothing at all suspicious about him, but Clara was right. He's definitely been set up. He was working for Charles Weir, the man who Francis Morris has recently joined forces with to run South and East London together. Amalyev was just a run of the mill cleaner for Weir, but he has no family in the UK. Easy to see why they chose him to take the rap for the murder. No one cares about kids like him: asylum seekers, rootless wanderers. But, it also means that there is someone inside the Police force facilitating all this."

She paused, letting Harry digest the information. He did so while sipping at his morning tea, frowning deeply as he mulled it all over. "That's quite a serious allegation to make, Ruth," he finally remarked, a frown dulling the glitter in his wide green eyes.

"I know that, Harry," she retorted. "But think about it: O'Casey is murdered, and they've apprehended the world's unlikeliest culprit within a matter of twenty-four hours. He's someone completely unlike Clara Walsh's description of the man she saw, and he was in the employment of one of the gang leaders involved in the wider game. They simply could not have gotten a result so quick, not unless someone was helping them from the inside."

Then, a memory stirred at the back of Harry's memory. "There's something else," he said, biting his lower lip. "Remember when we initially brought Miss Walsh in, there was some trouble getting her out of the Police Station. The Chief Superintendent seemed very reluctant to let her go – I remember Jo complaining bitterly about it at the time because it made her late for one of her dead drops. It was a few days ago, when we weren't treating the case as priority, and that's why it annoyed her."

The remembrance flared in Ruth's expression. "Yes!" she exclaimed, almost knocking her half-full cup over as her hand flew to her face. "I'll find out who the Chief Superintendent was and get on to him right away. You get on to the Home Sec, and see if he can't facilitate Amalyev's release."

Without waiting for any further instruction, Ruth was on her feet and Harry knew better than to try to distract her from her course of action now. However, when she reached door, just as she was about to launch herself over to her desk, he called her name and brought her to a sudden halt. She looked over her shoulder at him, expectantly. "What are you doing for lunch?" he asked her, already picturing the table for two in his mind's eye.

Lucas always marvelled at the range of emotions Ros could convey with just her lip. There was the sneer, seen on a daily basis and the most widely used of her expressions. Then there was the cynical lip curl, reserved for dealings with politicians. There was the lop-sided leer, used for dealing with slippery assets or terrorist leaders. However, none of those had ever shone upon Lucas North before; not, that is, until that morning as they sat in the front of her car sharing a breakfast. She sat behind the wheel, healthy banana in hand as he, sat in the passenger seat, bit into a fat chocolate croissant. Her lip curled at the corner, unmitigated horror frozen in her eyes.

"How can you eat that crap for breakfast?" she asked, fixing on the pastry clutched in his hand, still half wrapped in its paper bag.

He gulped down his mouthful, suppressing a grin. "I'd take your lofty disdain more seriously if you weren't brandishing your banana at me like that," he answered with a nod at her fruit.

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly and pointedly turned to look out at the early morning traffic, already building up through the main roads of the city. The day was promising to be fine, with open blue skies and nary a cloud to mar the sunshine. The city looked cheerful, almost clean in the dazzling light. However, work was creeping up on them as the clock ticked steadily towards nine am.

"Has Jo got our witness on a leash?" asked Ros, finally breaking the natural silence that had settled between them.

"You mean: has Jo got our witness safely ensconced in a safe house," he corrected her. "Yes, she has. And, she's agreed to remain there with her and keep an eye on things. We can't afford to have Clara go wandering off on us again."

Ros rolled her eyes. "That'll do for starters, I guess."

They checked their watches simultaneously, and cursed the lateness of the hour together, too. Ros deposited the banana skin on the dashboard, and revved the engine into life as Lucas finished his croissant. The traffic was steadily building by the time they were making it across the city towards Thames House. But, by divine intervention – or something like it – they made it in good time. As was often the case, they had barely set foot on the Grid before Harry was calling them over for a quick briefing.

"Ruth's unearth something potentially interesting; very interesting," said Harry as he led them both into the meeting room. "Lucas, I want you to investigate it, and Ros, I want you to investigate a businessman called Charles Weir in South London."

Ros and Lucas exchanged a glance; each registered a flicker of disappointment at being separated for the next phase of their investigation. But neither vocalised any complaint. Instead, they took their seats and fixed Harry with a keen look, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I've been on to the Home Secretary to see if we can get the suspect in the O'Casey murder released," explained Harry, "he said he's willing to turn a blind eye to us getting him out, but he cannot officially authorise a release in case it turns out he actually did commit the murder. However, that's not all. Lucas, I need you to keep a very close eye on the Chief Superintendent who arrested the boy, Alexei Amalyev, in the first place."

"Sure, but how?" asked Lucas. "Who is he?"

"Ruth's working on that, but you're going to be a new Chief Superintendent yourself, drafted in from the Midlands and shadowing him until you find your feet with the Met. His name is Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer."

It was all straightforward enough. "Fine. Malcolm can rig me up, and I can bug his office while I'm there. Should tell us all we need to know," he replied. "Am I releasing the Suspect on the sly while I'm at it? He'll still be in the holding cells at the station until he's formally charged."

"Yes, do it," Harry confirmed. Then, he turned to Ros: "I'm sending you to a bar owned by Charles Weir. We've arranged for his manageress to be forced into taking a few days off, and you're being sent by the agency to fill in for her, as of tonight. I want his offices bugged and, if you can, try to have a look around for anything incriminating. I want this case wrapped up as quick as can be; most especially now that we're spying on another branch of the security forces. It's always unpalatable."

Their orders issued, neither of them wasted time in carrying them out. Malcolm and Ruth had their new identities waiting for them already. However, they spent the rest of the morning checking over the footage of the Emerald Bar, which they had bugged only the day before. It was still mostly empty, and the owner, Frankie Morris, never seemed to stay in the office long. Malcolm, however, was not discouraged, imploring Ros and Lucas to patience in the matter. However, lunchtime came around, bringing with it no further advancement of their cause. It was enough to make Lucas almost lose the will to live as he and Ros prepared to go their separate ways.

Charlie Weir replaced the telephone and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Bloody Sam's phoned in," he told Frankie. "Her mother's had a fall, and she's had to head back to Warwick for a few days."

"Just can't get the staff these days," replied Frankie, clicking his tongue.

Charlie looked at him for a second. "Never mind that, the Agency's managed to get a replacement already. Better be bloody good; this place will fall apart without Sam. So then, your boys have been busy then?"

Frankie smiled and, carefully, he placed an ordinary looking suitcase on the desk between them. He put in a combination number, lifted the lid open and turned it around so Charlie could see what was contained inside. The plastic explosives they had had been wired, primed and was ready to go. Charlie blenched at having a sizeable bomb placed on his desk, even though he knew it was quite safe. It would be triggered only when Frankie himself sent a code from his mobile phone. By that time, it would be safely planted inside the Police station. He forced himself to smile.

"You got someone to plant it?"

Obviously, neither of them could go wandering into Scotland Yard with a bomb and run the risk of being caught. They were respectable businessmen.

"Oh yes," replied Frankie. "They think it's just a bribe for our friend. He'll text me when it's planted, and the it's up to us when we detonate."

Charlie was thoughtful for a minute. He needed to decide whether he wanted Chief Superintendent Mortimer in or out of the Station at the moment of detonation. He decided on a merciful approach. For now, the Police would be getting a warning. However, if his patience were tested, he would revise that.

"I want a warning phoned in at three o'clock this afternoon, and I want that detonated by three fifteen. Not a moment later. Fifteen minutes should be ample warning for all inside."

Frankie checked his watch. It was already midday, and he would have get his man to act fast if he wanted everything in place by three. He nodded his agreement and closed the lid on the suitcase. The deal was done, and there was no going back for them now.

Clara nursed her fourth cup of coffee of the day and stared into its depths as though it may reveal the secrets of the universe at any moment. It didn't. Her eyes were red and puffy from lack of sleep, her skin sallow and waxen. However, she took care to keep her hair neat and tidy, just so she wasn't letting herself go altogether. Her dog, Sparky, had been returned to her and now sat, full of hope, before the front door. She looked at him dejectedly; he had no chance, or so she thought.

"Shall we take him out?" asked Jo, sitting in a large, moth eaten armchair by the empty hearth of their new safe house.

Clara frowned. "I thought we weren't allowed out?"

Jo laughed, but good-naturedly. "It's not generally recommended," she admitted. "But you're with me, and a few laps around the block won't hurt. Maybe even the park down the road."

It was only something small but, to Clara, it was something – a small ray of normality – that could potentially keep her just about on the right side of sanity. Because this waiting game, she found, was worse than anything. All the time she worried about the damage she had done by fleeing her minders, and she feared for the boy taken into custody, and she worried endlessly about who was controlling who in this, the most dizzying of murder cases. If only she had decided to take Sparky on a different walk that night, then she would not be in this predicament. But the "what if" games were as pointless and destructive as the waiting game. Instead, she seized upon the small mercy that Jo – or, Vicky Holt as Clara knew her – and go on the dog walk.

As soon as she stepped outside, Clara breathed in deep lungful of air, savouring every polluted particle of it. "That's so much better!" she exclaimed as she, Jo and the spaniel all set off down the street towards the small park.

The weather had upheld its promise of fine, warm sunshine and the going was good for the rest of the day, too. They stopped at a coffee shop to get some coffee to take on their walk, and prepared themselves for a pleasant break from the monotony of life on the run. However, even out there Clara found that her situation still followed her. She had no notion of who Alexei Amalyev was; all she knew was that he was in prison somewhere for a crime she knows he didn't commit.

She stopped abruptly in the path and turned to Jo. "Your colleagues will be able to help, won't they?" she asked.

Jo knew already what she was talking about. "I think so," was the best she could answer, and she had an inkling it wasn't quite what Clara wanted to hear.

Clara let the silence fall and carried on walking again. She tried to distract herself by watching the dog sniff at the plentiful undergrowth of the neglected parkland. But it did not work for long.

"Look, why don't we – I mean you and I, not me on my own - just go down to the Station to try and talk to someone else about what's been happening?" she asked at length.

Jo sighed. "That's really not a good idea, Clara-"

"But I can't just sit around doing nothing, Vicky!" Clara protested, vehemently. "It's worse than useless."

She could see that Jo felt awful about the situation. Her hands were tied, and Clara even felt guilty for going on about it. But, she had to try. "I don't see what harm it can do," she insisted. "It might even help. Surely you know someone down the station who can help us?

Jo shrugged. "No," she answered truthfully. "Clara, if you really insist; if it will help set your mind at ease, then I'll drive you down the station. But, the first sign of trouble and we're out of there. And, not a word of this to anyone, understand?"

Relief washed over Clara like a great tide. "You mean it?" she asked, wanting to make sure she had not misheard. "We can go today?"

Jo was scowling, though. Clearly, the decision was against her better judgement. "If we get caught, then I only brought you because you bolted again," she explained, spelling out her terms. "I am not risking my job for this."

Clara nodded vigorously. "You're the boss!"

By her reckoning, it was gone midday now. If they hurried the walk and got themselves freshened up, they could be at the Station and dealing with a fresh new Police Officer by three o'clock. They continued their afternoon walk in the park with a new spring in their step.

Lucas made doubly sure to order something satisfactorily healthy for lunch before he and Ros parted ways for the day. To his chagrin, however, she barely noticed. Gone was her chocolate croissant sneer as she fussed over her new, bar manageress identity. As always, however, they ate in her car. Some things would not change, and they spent their lunch hour looking out at the park from behind their windscreen.

However, the moment of departure arrived all too swiftly. The Station was only a few hundred yards away, and Lucas could easily walk it from there, so their parting was destined to be as sudden as it was swift.

"It's gone one o'clock," he said, finishing the rest of his sandwich and packing up the wrappers. "I better get a move on; Mortimer will be expecting me by now."

Ros went to reply, and he braced himself for the usual snarky riposte. But it did not come. There was a moments hesitation in which their eyes met, and each seemed to fumble for something to say. The colour stole into Lucas' cheeks, something that had not happened since he was an awkward teen, and it had him reeling now.

"Did you hear?" he asked, "Ruth and Harry dining together this afternoon."

Her silence was stony, her expression not even wavering. He felt himself blush deeper and decided to change the subject.

"You take care, Ros," he said, suddenly acutely aware of how dangerous her mission was. He was only infiltrating a Police Station, whereas Ros was infiltrating a gangland boss's heartland.

Her expressive lips twitched into a genuine smile. "You too," she simply replied.

The moment passed, and Lucas hurried out of the car without further ado. He had a feeling they were both in for an exceptionally long day.