By the time Beth and the rest of the team got back to Thames House, Harry and Ruth were already settled in his office, pouring over the stack of files Beth had ordered dragged up from storage. She stopped in the doorway for a moment, watching them. Harry sat in his chair behind the desk, Ruth just opposite him, their heads bowed low over the files, almost touching. They were speaking quietly to one another; Harry pointed to something on the page in front of him, and Ruth shook her head, telling him in low tones why that wasn't the lead they were after.
How could they stand this? Beth wondered. It was evident that Harry loved this woman, and now, reunited after nearly five years apart, on the search for their missing child, they were hard at work. There were no tears, no affectionate touches, just the busy productivity of two people focused solely on their job. She had to give them credit; in their shoes she was fairly certain she would be a useless mess.
She cleared her throat to announce herself before moving through the doorway, laptop in hand.
"We've got a team going over your house, Harry," she told him. "So far we've found three mics and cameras, but no sign of explosives or anything like that."
Beth stepped further into the room as Lucas, Dimitri, and Tariq filed in behind her, the four of them going to sit in the semi-circle of chairs by the window. Ruth pushed away from the desk slightly so she could see them as well as Harry. Her face was haggard, but attentive, and Beth had to admire her for that.
"Any luck on the trace?" Ruth asked Tariq.
He shook his head.
"The question is why?" Beth said. "Why bug your house, and then let us know? Why take the trouble to set a trap for you, and then not spring it?"
"Power," Lucas answered, and they all turned to stare at him.
"Explain," Harry said tersely.
"Look, they want us to know what they're capable of. They found Ruth, they took her child, they got into your house, they hacked the laptop. I think they're trying to bully us, put us off our game. But more than that, Harry, I think they want you to know that they know about Emillia."
He didn't have to explain what he meant; every single person in the room seemed to suddenly become very interested in their shoes. Beth still couldn't quite believe it; Harry Pearce, have an affair with an intelligence analyst under his authority? She kept looking at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to see him as Ruth did. Trying to imagine what could possibly draw a woman to a man like Harry Pearce. She thought she had the answer, thought she had seen it written all over his face as he knelt at Ruth's feet in his kitchen. He had seemed so open, so warm and kind, and she found it difficult to reconcile that image with the Harry she knew. She wondered what had happened in the last five years, what had hardened him so, and she had the feeling that the answer was sitting in the chair beside his desk.
"Not possible," Harry said shortly. "The only people who knew about me and Ruth besides the pair of us are dead."
Ruth gave an involuntary little gasp, her eyes jerking up to his face. Beth remembered the list of names Ruth had grilled her with a few hours before. So they were dead, then. Wonderful.
"The letters!" Ruth exclaimed abruptly, her expression of horror replaced by one of sudden understanding.
"What?" Dimitri asked.
Ruth only had eyes for Harry though, turning in her chair to face him, more animated than she had been all night.
"I wasn't exaggerating Harry, I really did write you letters. I kept them- stupid, I know," she said, catching his expression, "but I did. They were in a lockbox under my bed with our passports and some cash. What if these people were watching me before they took her? What if they broke into my house and found the letters?"
"Then we're back to thinking that this isn't about you at all, Ruth," Harry said slowly, "This is about me."
Beth crossed her arms over her chest, thinking hard. What could they possibly be after? And what were the chances of them finding the little girl before it was too late?
3:00 a.m.
"Beth," Tariq called, "I think you'll want to see this."
She sighed and heaved herself out of her chair, crossing to his corner of the Grid. So far, the last few hours had been less than illuminating. Harry and Ruth had had a spectacular row, the nature of which eluded Beth; the files and CCTV search had proved completely useless; and so far the only fingerprints they'd managed to pull from the photo belong to Harry and Ruth. Six hours to go, and they'd no leads. She hoped that Tariq had found something useful, but it was a small, sickly, tired sort of hope.
Ruth had appeared at Tariq's shout, the ever-present cup of tea clutched in her hands, and she fell in behind Beth as they crossed the Grid together, silent as a shadow.
Beth couldn't quite figure this woman out, and that fact alarmed her. Ruth had been by turns quiet and tearful, obstinate and tenacious. She was also the only person Beth had ever actually seen yell at Harry, though her words had been muffled by the glass walls of his office. Whatever she'd said had clearly rattled him, as he'd stalked off immediately afterwards, muttering to himself, leaving Ruth alone in his office, fidgeting again. What sort of woman could have that effect on Harry bloody Pearce of all people? She was pretty, in an ordinary sort of way, and yes, she was the mother of his child, but he'd only found out about that a few hours before. Not for the first time Beth wished there was someone she could ask, someone who had known them before, but there as no one and she was left to muddle through it on her own.
"What is it?" she asked, coming to a stop behind Tariq's shoulder.
"It's CCTV footage, from the street where the daycare is in Paris," he explained.
"How did you manage that?" Beth asked incredulously. They hadn't held out hope that French intelligence would come through for them in time to be of any help.
"I – erm – hacked in," Ruth said, looking sheepish.
Beth stared at her, taken aback. The woman had been out of commission for five years, and she'd hacked the French intelligence services in the space of a few hours? She was nothing if not resourceful, was Ruth.
"Did you get a good look at our kidnapper?" Beth asked, moving her gaze from Ruth's face to the monitor.
"It's not as clear as I'd like, but…" Tariq trailed off as the grainy video began to play.
Beth watched, fighting back a rising tide of horror.
"That's impossible," she said flatly. "Lucas was in Oxford all day yesterday."
"Are you sure?" Ruth asked quietly.
"He's been babysitting a flighty asset. There are other agents at the house, they can vouch for him."
"I'd like to hear that from them, if you don't mind," Ruth said coolly.
Beth was already reaching for the phone. Allen and Howard were good agents, they'd set this right. And anyone could alter CCTV, as Ruth herself could surely attest. Unless she had pushed that bloke in front of a train…
"Where's Lucas?" Ruth asked sharply, and Beth spun around, her eyes flitting helplessly around the semi-deserted Grid. The phone pressed to her ear continued to ring.
Oh God, Lucas.
Allen's phone had gone to voicemail.
"Night guard says Lucas left about fifteen minutes ago," Tariq said quietly, hanging up his own phone. Beth couldn't answer, couldn't think; she just dialed Howard's number and prayed they were wrong.
Of course, if Lucas was involved, it would explain some things. How they'd managed to plant bugs in Harry's home, how they'd hacked the laptop, why Harry's phone had gone to voicemail earlier.
"This is Howard, sorry I missed you…"
Beth practically threw the phone down in frustration.
"Call Dimitri," she said, running a hand over her face. "We'll get a team to the safe house in Oxford, make sure Allen and Howard are all right. Then we start looking for Lucas." She looked up at Ruth and found those grey eyes full of pity. It turned her stomach.
"We've got to tell Harry," she continued, but Ruth reached out and stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm
"No," she said quietly.
"Excuse me?"
"How long will it take to get a team to the safe house? Thirty minutes?" Beth nodded grudgingly. "Then please, please wait until we've heard back from them. That footage doesn't show Lucas with Emilia, and it could have been tampered with. There could be any one of a hundred different explanations, and there's no point worrying Harry until we have more information."
Beth considered her for a moment before replying. "On your head be it," she said.
3:15 a.m.
She found him on the roof, which was not surprising in the least. He was staring out unseeing at the lights of London far below, his glove-shrouded hands clutching the railing so tightly that she knew if she could see his knuckles they'd be white. She shoved her own hands in the pockets of her coat and gazed at him for a time unspeaking.
He hadn't changed much, had Harry. He'd lost a little more hair, and when he'd removed his tie a few hours earlier she'd seen that the skin of his neck was a bit looser than it had been before. He was still broad and warm and solid, a rock she could cling to. And wasn't it odd, she thought, that after one brief night together and five long years apart she still felt this pull towards him, this unreasoning, unthinking need to be as close to him as possible?
He'd told her he loved her, all those years ago, and the memory alone was enough to make her want to weep. Was this love, then? The need to be near him, the feeling of panic and helplessness that overwhelmed her when she had to leave him behind? Was it love that made her shout at him, push him away when she needed him most?
She'd sent him a postcard, in the early days of her exile, telling him in a painfully oblique way that she loved him, that she'd given up her life for him and she would do it again in a heartbeat. She'd written him letter after letter, never to be sent, telling him about their daughter, about how she longed to see him, about her dreams that one day she would come home. To him.
And now, faced with the warm, solid reality of him, she was at a loss for words.
Harry seemed to have no such problem.
"I can feel you lurking," he said quietly, not turning his gaze from the city before him.
He hadn't lost that skill either, then, that ability to sense when she was near.
Ruth took a deep breath and crossed the space between them to stand beside him at the railing.
"I'm sorry I shouted," she said quietly, not looking at him.
Harry sighed. "You're worried about Emilia. And I don't blame you in the least," he added, speaking slowly, as if each word pained him to say. "This is all my fault. I cost you your life, and now I've put your child in danger. In your position, I'd shout, too."
"Oh Harry," she breathed, resting her hand lightly on his arm, needing him to feel her, to know she could never, would never hate him. "It isn't your fault. You tried to go to prison in my place. You never even knew about Emilia. It isn't your fault."
He turned to her sharply, dislodging her hand in the process, his eyes hurt and angry as they flashed in the darkness.
"Isn't it?" he demanded. "Mace framed you to punish me. Someone has taken your child – our child – and the only explanation that makes any sense is they've done it to get to me. You've suffered so much, for so long, to atone for my sins. You have every right to hate me."
"You stupid man," she said, hoping he could hear the affection in her strained, tired voice. It was on the tip of her tongue, the words I love you just on the very edge of slipping out, when they heard the crunch of footsteps on the roof behind them. As one they turned to find Beth coming towards them, tears glistening in her eyes.
When she spoke, her words were directed at Ruth.
"They're dead," she said. "Allen and Howard and the asset. They're all dead."