"Hi Catherine, it's Dad. I, erm, I suppose you're at work. Just wanted to say that, erm, well I'm just checking in really and er, would be nice to have dinner soon. You and your brother. Unfortunately I don't have a number for him at the moment but erm you could say hello for me and... well, I know you look out for him. So er, well I hope to see you soon. Okay, bye."
His voice was shaky and his words so vague, so horribly vague to his own daughter. Harry was adamant to not reveal his fear to Catherine, but he felt awful for pretending everything was fine when he genuinely thought that her breezy answer phone response was the last time he would hear her voice.
For one horrible second, later on that awful day, he was glad that John Bateman had died so he could live and repair the relationship with his daughter.
And then Harry rubbed a hand across his face again and cursed himself and this lousy business and what it did to people who could have been so much better.
John Bateman might not have had the strongest moral code, but it was more reasonable than many of the people Harry had encountered over the years. But when he was Lucas North, he was infinitely better and stronger and wiser than so many others. He had Tom's authority and Adam's instincts and was like a son to Harry.
And now his body was on the street, crushed and alone and finally broken beyond any form of repair.
When Towers phoned late that evening Harry was on the rooftop of The Grid. Sleep was something of a past memory since Lucas had morphed back into John and Harry knew it would be futile attempting to savage some precious rest when his mind had so many other things to contemplate.
Towers had told him to prepare for life after the Service, and Harry couldn't honestly pinpoint the emotion he felt at the news. Anger, at being thrown out after so many years? Sadness that this life was ending? Or relief that he wouldn't be responsible for any more deaths?
Harry recognised one particular feeling, though – a loathing of the Service. Feelings like that had caused Tom Quinn to crash and burn. He was living somewhere out in the countryside with Christine now, who was also miraculously salvaged from the carnage caused by the Service. Harry felt a twinge of jealousy at their normal life.
He turned around too quickly, sensing someone behind him. Lucas, stepping out of the shadows. John, screaming for help.
It was Ruth, wearing that look of concern.
"Who was that?"
"William Towers." Harry's throat was dry. He knew he would end up telling Ruth what had happened eventually – why delay?
"There's going to be a full enquiry about what's happened. It seems I may not be here for much longer," Harry said as calmly as he could, wishing he hadn't seen how her eyebrows furrowed in concern and her eyes widened in shock.
"Harry, I'm-" Ruth couldn't find the words but Harry was glad to not have to hear them.
"You should go home; it's late," he said brusquely, turning away to face the London skyline which was bustling for his attention. It was rude and arrogant and discourteous to turn away from a friend, especially Ruth, but Harry couldn't think of the words to say.
Ruth's footsteps died away behind him. Harry read the text again from Catherine before placing his phone in his coat pocket. He was having dinner with his daughter next week.
Lucas North was dead.
His name wouldn't even reach the memorial glass.