Thanks to those who read and even greater thanks to those who took the trouble to review. I'd also like to thank those who've stuck with the story which has become far longer than planned. One day it will end and I do know what that end will be - honest.

The Grid. Approx 3.30pm

Harry's protective instincts had been spot on. As the implications of his words sank into Jane's brain the horror on his face flew across the space dividing them and imprinted itself onto her features. After a few seconds she managed to speak, her words faltering.

"The memory stick it ... it ...didn't show Catherine?"

Realising that shock may have led her into slightly misinterpreting his words, Harry hastened to give her what small reassurances he could manage.

"No, I think the stick was given to her by a contact, I'm hoping she didn't watch it." As he said it he made a mental note to check with Malcolm as to whether or not previous viewings could be detected.

Flipping back to the vague details the investigations of yesterday had yielded he added, "Remember what one of her colleagues told you, that she was working on something, but was cagey – I think I now know what it was."

"And you're not going to tell me, although she's my daughter too." The words sounded sharp, the inflection was resigned, so resigned that Harry didn't feel the need to reply.

The more Jane considered the situation the more agitated she became. Watching her gradually process the shock Harry understood. He'd experienced all too often the mental agony induced by helpless worry, allied with the desire to do something, anything positive, when forced into a helpless passivity by circumstance. Without her presence he'd have been wearing out the carpet as he paced back and forth, and not in a good way; his restraint due only to his overriding need to maintain a semblance of calm for the sake of Jane's sanity.

Everyone assumed that the toughest part of his job was making the difficult calls, it wasn't. What was much harder was living with the knowledge that he'd condemned those he valued to hideous deaths while he squatted, allegedly smug and secure, in his glass walled office isolated from reality. Lest he forget, lest he ever fell into the trap of regarding his minions as chess pieces to be wantonly discarded in the defence of the realm, he'd long been in the habit of making private visits to the Thames House memorial wall. He didn't need to do so, not when the names of each and every one of his lost officers were etched just as indelibly upon his memory as they were upon the weeping glass panel, an evergreen memento of every fateful decision forced upon him. His lonely viewing of the endlessly lengthening list was a small secret discipline, further burdened by the depressing thought that within a few short years, as the world moved on, the existence of those commemorated would be forgotten, their sacrifice blurred out by time. Since Ruth's death these occasional interludes had become a regular weekly pilgrimage. Her loss was the most recent, and for him the most personal, but the other deaths he honoured were just as poignant, and in their own individual ways equally tragic for those left behind. His cherished colleagues, a surrogate family for whom he was responsible, and whose demise sprang inescapably from his decrees; leaving him with an inheritance of emotionally numbing grief and guilt.

Having been in Jane's place times without number he knew that there was no antidote to what she was feeling. The only possible pacifier was action, not easy when they were both inextricably trapped in the confines of his office. Each of them nearly paralysed with worry. It was only when he noted Jane's eyes once more gazing at Catherine's photograph, as if willing her to materialise and step out of the frame, that an idea occurred to him, or more accurately he remembered a task he'd shelved at the same time as his daughter's photograph.

Nestling in the corner of his office lay the pile of papers and DVDs he'd also removed from Catherine's flat. In cases of this type everyone, victim and perpetrator alike, lost their right to privacy, as their entire lives were dissected in forensic detail. An unsavoury task which, if performed in the Garden of Eden, would have had Adam complaining that his human rights respecting the ownership of freshened up fig leaves where being infringed. A distasteful chore maybe, but necessary. Harry appreciated the reasoning behind this; he'd played a part in exposing many a hidden scandal, work undertaken with glee where his so called political masters were involved. Now, when it came to cold bloodedly trawling through his daughter's private life, he felt uncharacteristically squeamish. Still what had to be done, had to be done. How Jane would react to this was anyone's guess, but she'd already had a conceptual blooding when ringing around Catherine's friends and acquaintances.

His movement towards the pile of papers must have attracted Jane's attention away from contemplating her own worries.

"So what now Mr Section D? We just sit and wait?"

"Well we could, but it might be more productive if we studied this pile of scribblings."

With that he dumped a three inch deep pile of assorted paper oddments on his desk accompanied by the command.

"I need you to check them, see if anything you heard from her contacts links with this lot."

Jane eyed the tatty pile before enquiring sweetly, "And while I'm slaving away, you'll be?

"Rechecking them after you, from an intelligence perspective."

"MI5 variety I trust. If Catherine's safety depends upon your usual standard of emotional intelligence we're sunk."

Harry could have been offended, but recollecting of his frequent misreadings of Ruth, Juliet, Elena, and Jane herself, he recognised that her stinging words held an unpalatable truth. Just as disastrously he'd made no allowances; indeed had failed entirely to realise, that Jo Portman had become damaged to the point of possessing an unsuspected death wish, and then repeated the same tragic mistake with Ros Myers. He'd ignored Tom Quinn's evolving burn out; failed to comprehend the true depth Adam's grief stricken fragility when Fiona died – and if anyone should have recognised that Adams's ill advised couplings with unsuitable women sprang from a desire for an emotional anaesthesia it was himself – and he'd also completely misunderstood the effect of Zoe's trial and departure on Danny. It wasn't that he hadn't tried in his own bumbling way to protect them, he cared deeply about all his officers, but as Jane had just obliquely phrased it, he lacked empathy.

Jane watching the twinned expressions of hurt and regret sweep across his face sighed. For the second time in the afternoon a casual remark had solicited an unexpected reaction. This time was worse, for the sake of a not very smart quip she'd wounded Harry unintentionally. Two days ago upsetting him so badly would have made her rejoice; now she was wondering when exactly she'd turned into such a savagely ungrateful bitch. Much as she hated the idea she made haste with the apology.

"I'm sorry Harry, that was uncalled for and very unfair."

"It was also true."

"Of you, and about ninety nine point nine percent of all men. If you really didn't care I doubt that I'd be sitting here."

Hoping that this topic was now closed for both their sakes, she indulged herself in the masculine habit of turning the subject as she pointed her hand towards the papers still residing on his desk, making her reluctance to comply with his suggestion plain with the question, "Do we have to do this?"

Reading her meaning Harry answered the unspoken objection, "I hate invading her privacy as much as you do."

"And here I was thinking that was what you do habitually – phone taps, bugs, dustbin rummaging, honeytraps. Shouldn't the Section D motto read, 'Beware your dirty washing'.

"When it's your own it feels somewhat different. But would you really prefer one of my officers to do this? Personally I'd rather we stuck to the motto of most of the criminals we investigate, 'Keep it in the family'. That last word struck a sudden memory chord.

"That reminds me Jane, I'm really sorry but I haven't had a chance to mention it until now. While you were dealing with the delightful Gawain your equally delightful sister rang up."

Jane was utterly astounded as she mouthed, "Why?"

"She'd missed the pleasure of my conversation." Jane was glaring daggers, rightly accusing him of extreme sarcasm. "No, seriously she wanted to have a word with me as she was worried about you, especially when she'd had Robin mouthing off at her."

"Oh God."

"No Robin. He may think he's God, but the deity, if he exists, might disagree. Anyway Robin had been quite aggressive and threatening. Let's face it, rattling your battleaxe of a sister is quite an achievement. If it was anyone other than Robin I'd have been tempted to congratulate them. However as I don't like to see women threatened, and Rebecca just about comes under that heading, I've arranged protection for her and told her to ring if she has any further malarkey from Snuggle Bunny." As a reassuring addendum he polished this off with, "I didn't mention Robin's nickname to her or the existence of Smoochie Babe. It might make her interrogate James about his business trips and the poor bloke probably gets enough grief without my adding to it."

Ignoring the passing reference to her brother in law Jane had more pertinent queries, "Rebecca agreed! And why on earth did you do that? I seem to recall you once describing her as the woman who'd make Hell too hot for Satan"

"Oh we agreed about quite a lot actually." Jane shot him a rigidly sceptical glare that did not prevent him continuing in palpably faked hurt voice, "We both agreed that we loath one another, we both agreed that we want the best for you and we both agreed that you'd be better off without Robin. Obviously I didn't entirely agree with her assertion that you chose crap husbands. "

"Obviously." Jane was quite shocked, not so much by Harry helping Rebecca; on his performance over the past twenty four hours she wouldn't be overly surprised to discover that he was planning to refit the Briefing Room with a round table. What really amazed her was that Rebecca had accepted his offer in view of her extremely blunt comments over the years. 'Are you sure his surname doesn't refer to the activities of his permanently rigid dick?' She did need to express her gratitude. "Thank you Harry, I know you feel responsible for me at present, but you're not obliged to extend that to Rebecca."

"It was no trouble, and I know how important she is to you. If I'm truly honest I envy you that."

"What envy me Rebecca!" Jane wondered if her ears had just failed her. It was bad enough that over the past couple of days her brain had softened to the point of trusting Harry, without her senses deciding to go awol to boot.

"God no." What a ghastly idea, as if the contents of the memory stick hadn't been enough for one day. He went on to enlighten her as to his seemingly certifiable statement.

"I stand by everything I've ever said about her. Up to and including that if her martyr of a husband murdered her I'd arrange for the bench of bishops to swear he was elsewhere. No, it's not Rebecca herself I envy you, but having a sibling you can rely on, the closeness of someone with a shared DNA and history. I'll admit to jealousy on that score."

Jane closed her eyes briefly. That Harry had so willingly exposed himself emotionally, a much harder task for him than physically stripping off, was a signal that he really was beginning to trust her. That revelation only topped up her earlier sense of shame. She'd become so enmeshed her earlier hatred of Harry she'd completely forgotten that post divorce his brother had been killed died in a freak accident. And she'd just accused him of lacking emotional intelligence! Only with his melancholy laden words had it dawned upon her that with Ben's premature death their children were Harry's only remaining family. So what else in his late fifties was he left with? Current evidence suggested his life principally revolved around a nightmare inducing job and a deep unspoken sorrow that was eating away at him with no real friends to confide in, other than the quietly spoken Malcolm.

When she opened her eyes again she saw that he was looking at her with a slight air of confusion. Whichever Harry was addressing her, the spy or the parent, he was plainly disquieted by so much self revelation. Wanting to ease him she smiled before stating, "If you don't mind I'll ring Rebecca tonight and try to set her mind at rest."

He nodded wordlessly as his eyes strayed away from her towards the task he'd been about to initiate. Recovering his equilibrium after his unplanned self exposure he adding innocently, "Has she got one?"

He avoided Jane's renewed glower by staring at the papers again. Jane following suit and glancing at the odd words scrawled on the uppermost was moved to query, "Surely this lot won't have anything important."

"Possibly not, but on one occasion when I visited her I noticed that she has your habit when she takes a phone call."

"Which is?"

"She scribbles down words that looked disconnected but are relevant to the message." Seeing Jane was still looking dubious he added with a mild impatience, "Come on, it must be worth a try."

Jane swallowed, typical spook to notice an engrained nervous habit, before nodding her head and then said, "Well you'd better sit beside me then" This was accompanied by an inviting pat of the vacant space on the sofa cushions. At his curious look her own exasperation began to surface.

"It'll be easier if we look at each piece together. Will you sit here if I promise faithfully not to bite you?"

Tempted as he was to reply 'Ah memories" he knew that this would, given the current angst ridden circumstances, be inappropriate. While the suggestion that he join her on the sofa was motivated by practicality on her part, it was making him feel distinctly unsettled. Although Jane was undeniably middle aged, in terms of personal appearance she had also been fortunate enough to have staved off anno domini to a far greater degree than himself. Crucially she was still sufficiently attractive to make him slightly apprehensive about the effects of too much prolonged close contact. Not willing to give voice to a truth that would be excruciatingly embarrassing for both of them Harry shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie, gently easing the collar he was getting hot under, as he aimed to convey an impression of casualness that was at direct variance with his true feelings. As he settled himself beside her it was with a heartfelt prayer that her earlier outspoken reflections respecting involuntary male physical reactions proved, on this occasion, to be incorrect.

Breathing in the slightly heady combination of his aftershave and smell that could only be described as masculine Jane, in her turn, suddenly became acutely aware of his sheer physical presence. Something about the comforting proximity of his solid body made her feel secure; as if nothing would harm her while he was near. A further confirmation, as if she needed one, that she was crazy. Not only was Harry was probably the least safe person she knew, they were also currently occupied in attempting to discover who had handed their daughter a stick depicting graphic torture. By his own admission the danger to all those associating with him was as real and present as his stocky figure currently jostling with her for space on the sofa. Did she have any other choice than to rely on him and hope? She answered that strictly rhetorical question by reaching out her hand to grab the first of the jottings passed to her by Harry.

Thus seated side by side, thigh by thigh, senses mutually heightened by a closeness that each of them feigned to ignore, they began to sift through the detritus of their daughter's random scrawling. Few made sense, odd initials, occasional words interspersed with casual doodles. It was like attempting to complete jigsaw without the benefit of a guiding picture and with no indication of the final shape. They didn't even know if the disconnected jottings even belonged to the main puzzle. Jane was beginning to wonder if this is wasn't simply a time wasting game, of the monotonous repetitious variety she saw teenagers playing on their ever present mobile phones, when her eyes finally lighted on a coherent phrase.

"'Son of Dad's friend?' followed by a name, 'Gene Seth Jardvec.'

She read it twice through and then shoved it front of Harry's eyes with a forthright.

"Over to you. Who the hell is he?"

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