A/N: Thank you all for your encouraging reviews. I'm so pleased that so many of you are enjoying this story. You make my day. Cheers, S.C.
2nd September 1991, 12 am
140 Gower Street, London
"Got you!" Malcolm exclaims with elated satisfaction. He grabs the phone on his desk and quickly dials a number.
"Yes," Mark murmurs groggily, answering the phone on the second ring as he glances at the clock by his bedside.
"I've found one of them."
"Where?" he asks, swinging his legs out of bed, trying hard not to disturb his wife though, after six years of marriage, she knows to sleep with earplugs if she wants a decent night's sleep when there's an active operation on.
"In Stoke-on-Trent, five hours ago. He used an ATM. It was Jenkins. His aunt lives just outside Stoke. I'm sending you the address now."
"Good work, Malcolm. Get some rest."
"Not until we get Harry back," Malcolm replies stubbornly, ends the call, and returns to his computer.
Mark shakes his head, and quickly pulling on some clothes, he heads downstairs and into the kitchen, using the phone there to ring Annie Spencer, a junior officer he's mentoring right now, to let her know of the new developments. Twenty minutes later he pulls up outside her flat, where he picks her up and they head for the M40.
4 am
Village outside Stoke-on-Trent
"That's it," Mark murmurs as they pass the house, then he pulls up a few houses down and parks the car.
"What do we do now?" Annie whispers.
"We'll set up surveillance on the house and the aunt."
"But what if they're not here?"
"We have no other leads," Mark murmurs, "so, until we find one of them or find Harry, we might as well be sitting here as anywhere else."
"Right," she says and climbs onto the back seat of the car from where she can watch the house more easily and without being seen. "I'll take first watch. I got more sleep than you."
Mark nods, adjusts his seat, and closes his eyes.
6 am
Small Village in Shropshire
Despite her best intentions, she'd fallen asleep and only woken up an hour ago. Luckily for everyone, her unknown guest had survived the night, though his skin had seemed warmer than earlier, warm enough to cause concern and warrant measuring his temperature. She'd got up and quickly dressed in the bathroom before heading over to her first aid kit, looking for the thermometer. Soon she'd pulled back the covers, checked neither of his wounds had bled through their bandages in the night, covered him once more, and had slipped the thermometer under his arm, holding it in place with her cool palm pressed against his bicep. He's got rather large, strong muscles, she hadn't failed to notice and deliciously warm, smooth skin, and she'd been annoyed to discover that she isn't unaffected by it – far from it, in fact.
His temperature had indeed been a lot higher than she'd like it to be – 39.3oC to be precise. So she'd gone about doing her best to get some fluids into him, putting away the thermometer and getting a glass of water and spoon from the kitchen, painstakingly allowing a few drops at a time to drip through his lips, wiping away any that dribbled down the side of his face. She wishes she had more Homoeopathic Remedies with her, but she's only brought those in her first aid kit. She'd given him Belladonna in the hope that it'll bring down his temperature, but it hasn't worked.
Still, she reasons, at least it means that his immune system's putting up a good fight. She sponges his forehead and makes sure that he's covered well. Hopefully, the fever will break soon. She decides she'll only give it another hour before calling an ambulance.
She studies his face trying to discern some information about him. He has a good nose and his ears are a nice shape, even if they do stick out a bit. His lips are full and almost make him look like he's pouting all the time, and despite his receding hairline, he's got soft hair, blonde and curly, though it's cut rather short at the moment. She doesn't think him handsome in the conventional sense, though it would be hard to think anyone with a black eye and bruising all over one side of his face handsome. She's not sure what it is, but something about him has sparked an interest in her. This surprises her, given the circumstances under which they'd met. She's never really gone in for the 'bad boy' types, and this man she's certain falls into that category – the kind that will break your heart without a second thought and up and leave you in tears.
She chastises herself for being so mean-spirited. Perhaps he's a nice bloke despite his propensity to get into trouble. Maybe he's married with a couple of children, who are, even now, waiting for their Daddy to come home. She wonders if someone missed him last night, if they've stayed up all night worrying, have rung all their friends and the police when they couldn't find him, and suddenly he doesn't seem so dangerous any more, so reckless. Suddenly he seems human, vulnerable, and remarkably attractive.
She smiles ruefully and shakes her head at herself. This is definitely not helping, so she sets aside the washcloth for the moment and gets up, intent on making herself a nice cup of tea.