Fic: Flowers Never Bend (1/3) Pros
Title: Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall
Author: Andromeda
Proslib / Circuit Archive: Yes
Pairing and/or characters: Bodie/Doyle, everyone.
Rating: Definitely Adult
Word Count: 9,900 / 33,000
Notes: With massive thanks to cuvalwen who has been doing sterling work as both a beta and ideas bouncer. This seriously wouldn't have been written if not for her. Also thanks to my other beta reader, Ian (WOLJ), who discovered the gaping plot hole without, quite, falling in it.
Summary: When Doyle vanishes after acting strangely, everyone wonders what is going on. It doesn't take long for Bodie and Cowley to realise there's a lot more to this than meets the eye.
Disclaimer: The Professionals are the property of Mark 1 Productions and London Weekend Television. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall
Part One
Through the corridors of sleep
Past the shadows dark and deep
My mind dances and leaps in confusion.
I don't know what is real, I can't touch what I feel
And I hide behind the shield of my illusion.
Flowers Never Bend with the Rainfall - Simon and Garfunkel
Friday 24th February
"Harder!"
Bodie canted his hips higher and arched his back as he cried out his demand. His fingers clawing at the rumpled sheets as he tried to find the purchase to meet the more brutal pace Doyle obligingly provided.
"Come on!"
As Doyle's thrusts grew ever harder and faster, his grip on Bodie's hips became tight enough to bruise. But Bodie relished the physical connection; that hard, calloused grip providing a proof of identity that Doyle's habitual silence could not provide. Meanwhile, Bodie was loud enough for them both, his moans and curses all but masking the creak of the ancient bed beneath them.
Bodie's cock, purposely neglected, was rosy and still wet from Doyle's mouth. His hands trembled as the temptation to take himself in hand grew stronger, but he resisted, balling them into fists, wanting this to last as long as possible.
His upper thighs slid across sweat-slick shoulders as he attempted to pull himself higher, closer, by force of will alone. He bit his lip, tasting copper and salt. He needed this connection, needed to feel possessed, owned, by the man half-crouching over him. Bodie wanted to freeze this moment forever, preserve this perfect piece of teamwork, never to let go.
"Not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet..."
But it couldn't last. With a final cry, half of triumph, half of disappointment, he came, his whole body convulsing out of control, his release spattering across his chest. Lost in his own orgasm, he barely registered Doyle's own orgasm, moments later.
Seconds or hours later Bodie slid his legs from Doyle’s shoulders as the other man carefully withdrew. He spread his legs further apart as Doyle came to rest between them on his knees, hands either side of Bodie's head, back arched over him, the damp auburn curls tickling his face. Doyle drew in a few shuddering breaths before raising his head to meet Bodie's gaze. Bodie grinned up at his partner and noticed Doyle's stare soften slightly in the half-light of the bedside lamp before the other man jerked back, sliding off the bed and onto his feet.
Bodie stretched languorously, wincing slightly as sore muscles at the base of his spine made themselves felt. "That was…" he started to say before finally registering the deliberate movements next to him. He turned to face Doyle. "What are you doing?"
Doyle paused, one leg in his jeans. "What does it look like?"
"Oh." Bodie thought for a moment. "I thought you'd stay a while."
"And do what, exactly?" Doyle's tone of voice was odd.
"I don't know. Share a beer or two. Catch the match."
Doyle nodded towards the clock on the bedside table. "Bit late for that, isn't it? Match finished ages ago."
Bodie squinted. It was, indeed later than he had first thought. "Huh, I didn't realise it was so late. Time obviously flies when you're having fun."
Doyle forbore to comment and stood, pulling his skin-tight jeans over his hips.
"Well, there's still time for that beer, if you fancy it?"
"Nah, got things to see, people to do. You know how it is."
Bodie grinned. "You certainly did me. Well, if you're sure?"
Doyle nodded, slipping on his trainers and looking around for a moment. "Any idea where my shirt is?"
Bodie propped himself up on his elbows. "Probably somewhere in the hall. S'where the action started, after all."
"Don't remind me," Doyle muttered and Bodie frowned.
"Anything up?"
"No." Doyle sounded defensive. "Why should there be?"
"Well, it's not like you to run off so soon." Except it was, lately. Doyle had been up and out of the flat before the afterglow had worn off the last few times they'd engaged in this particular extra-curricular piece of teamwork..
Doyle shook his head. "As I said, I've got things to do. And I could do with the sleep, considering the jobs The Cow has had us on for weeks. I'm beginning to forget what my own bed looks like."
That, at least, was true. Three weeks undercover for Doyle, before being flung headlong into the op that had netted the squad a tidy ring of bombers. But still.
"You could always…" Bodie started, before falling silent, confused as to what he was saying.
Doyle's gaze turned sharp. "What?"
"Doesn't matter." Bodie muttered, knowing any invitation would be rebuffed. "Hey, if we're on report-writing duty tomorrow, we'll get out at a reasonable time. Fancy sinking a couple of pints down at the Black Lion after work?"
Doyle's sigh was long-suffering. "Who is she?"
"New barmaid. Biggest knockers in Hammersmith, no lie. Bound to be a raver. I'll even let you have a punt, sporting-like, if you want."
"That's jolly decent of you," Doyle snapped back, sarcastically.
"You can soften her up a bit before I go in for the kill."
"And if she fancies me?"
"Well, I wouldn't want to make it with anyone mentally deficient, now would I? You'd be welcome to her."
That pronouncement was met with stony silence. Doyle turned to the bedroom door.
"Hey," Bodie tried one more time.
Doyle stopped, back to him.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow."
Doyle half-turned back to the bed. "Now who's mentally deficient? Have you forgotten that I drove you back earlier, after your wheels met with that mishap with the forklift truck?"
Bodie had forgotten, but he was not about to admit that. "Well, in that case, I'll swing by yours early. You can cook me breakfast and then you can drive us both in."
"With what? Three weeks undercover, remember. The refrigerator has probably grown new life in that time."
This was getting ridiculous. "I'll bring something over."
"You do that. I'm off; else I'll never get home." He swung the door open and vanished through it.
"See you tomorrow, Ray," Bodie called after him, but Doyle didn't answer him and a few moments later he heard the front door close and lock.
Bodie grabbed a handful of tissues before turning his back to the door. He pulled the creased and sweat-damp sheets over him, feeling hard done by. Bloody Doyle, going and ruining the mood like that. He pummelled at the pillows, trying to get comfortable. What had got into the man anyway? It wasn’t as if this time hadn’t been all his idea. All Bodie had done was suggest takeaway and a few beers in front of the game. That didn’t necessarily equate with fucking. Though Bodie had hoped that would be the culmination of the evening, of course. Anyone would. Doyle was damned good at it. But the invitation hadn’t been issued with that in mind, entirely. After the undercover job he’d just been on Doyle would want some time to unwind, become himself again.
But Doyle had had other ideas. Barely had Bodie locked the front door, than Doyle was on him, pushing Bodie hard against the wall, scrabbling at his clothes. Caught up in this whirlwind of lust and need, when Doyle had growled “Bedroom. Now." Bodie could only follow.
Damn, but the Golly was a firecracker when he was worked up.
So what was eating at him? Agonising over the last job? But it had been a success, the only injuries worth writing home about on the wrong side. Bodie himself had sustained a few cuts and bruises as he had leapt out of the way of a wayward forklift truck, but it was nothing unusual. Everyone caught bang to rights. It had been just another job.
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps Doyle was getting dissatisfied with the job full stop.
That gave him pause. Perhaps Doyle was thinking about upping and leaving him - him and the rest of CI5, of course - without a word or by your leave.
Never. Doyle wouldn’t do that to a mate. Too bloody conscientious by half, that boy. But still, he might just be working himself up to a resignation speech.
Bodie frowned to himself. How long had this been going on? He thought back, but he couldn’t pin-point a change. It had happened so gradually.
These episodes of mind-blowing sex were infrequent enough, especially considering the punishing pace the Cow had set them recently. Which was worrying in itself. But that was a thought for another time. Bodie really didn’t have the mental energy to worry about Cowley and Doyle at the same time.
But what to do about Doyle? He couldn't be serious about leaving him. Doyle just needed taking out of himself, that was all. A few pints with the rest of the squad, a darts match or two. Pick up that barmaid together, perhaps.
Yeah, that was it. A night of uncomplicated fun is just what the Bodie ordered. The two of them taking it in turns with a willing lady. Even together, if she was amenable. That would soon put the smile back on Doyle’s face.
And with such thoughts, Bodie fell asleep.
* * * * *
Saturday 25th February
The February air was chill as Bodie leaned on Doyle's doorbell next morning. Too early by half, Bodie was convinced, but he had promised to bring round the makings of a good breakfast and so he was juggling a Spar bag packed with breakfast goodies, from bacon and eggs to a pint of milk, reasonably sure that Doyle wouldn't have had time to even pick up that necessity.
There was no answer. Bodie frowned and pressed again before giving up and retrieving his own set of keys from the depths of his pocket. After the shooting, the one that landed Doyle in hospital for six weeks, it had seemed a good idea to trade flat keys. Just in case. Bodie really hadn't appreciated the level of acrobatics he'd needed to let himself in that day and in the event of the next flat not having a balcony or a convenient fire escape, it would definitely make things easier next time.
Not that there was going to be a next time, of course.
He took the three flights of stairs two steps at a time, humming a little tune to himself as he did so. Doyle was probably still asleep. Rather strange for a man who was usually up with the lark, but not so surprising considering the amount of sleep he'd got in the last three weeks.
He fetched up at the front door, nothing looked unusual, and unlocked it, pushing it wide open.
"Hi honey! I'm home!" he carolled.
But there was no answer.
Bodie dumped the bag in the hallway and, the skin on the back of his neck prickling, he pulled his gun from its holster and walked down the narrow hallway, pushing open each door as he came to it. Bathroom on the right was empty, so was the living room and kitchen. The bedroom door was ajar, and Bodie pushed it open quietly with the muzzle of the gun, not daring to think of what he might see as the room was revealed.
It was empty. Doyle had obviously forgotten and left early.
Except there was something was off about that.
Bodie scanned the room more thoroughly, taking in the unmade bed, dirty laundry still in the basket and then made his way through the flat again, this time taking more note of each room than the lack of its usual resident. He picked up the bag in the hall automatically, closing the door with a definite slam as he did so and carried the groceries through to the kitchen where he dumped them on the side.
There was weeks old dust on the counter; two plates and two mugs still sat dirty in the sink. The same crockery they had shoved in the sink before haring off to HQ three weeks before.
Bodie crossed to the window in the living room, which looked over the quiet suburban street, and scanned the road up and down. Doyle's car was nowhere to be seen.
Doyle hadn't left early this morning to go running or anything else. He hadn't been home at all.
He sat down on the sofa, thinking furiously. If Doyle hadn't been home, then where had he gone? It had been late when he left Bodie's place last night, so it wasn't as if he'd have found a more inviting bed for the night.
Well, that's what he hoped.
Urgent call out? But why then hadn't Bodie been also called out? Doyle was the half of the partnership that had been run ragged over the last few weeks. Bodie was as fresh as a daisy by comparison.
A grass then? But what could be so important that it had sent Doyle out into the night when all he had professed to wanting nothing more than his own bed and six hours uninterrupted shut-eye.
Personal or job-related? Doyle had no family worth speaking of and any current bird of Doyle's wouldn't have a problem so big it warranted such an unsociable hour. Not that Bodie knew of any current love-interest. Unless it was both. Bodie scowled as he remembered both Ann Seaford and Kathy Mason. Really, Doyle's birds were always more trouble than they were worth.
The only problem with that was if some damsel in distress had shown up at Doyle's some time last night, why hadn't Doyle knocked him up as well?
Perhaps it was time to call it in.
He pulled out his R/T, working out what to say in order to minimise the risk of embarrassment to Doyle if it turned out he'd just decided to go for a long drive or something, when suddenly the door burst open, a canister arcing through the opening, releasing a pungent gas.
Coughing, Bodie immediately dropped behind the sofa, pulling out his gun as he did so, trying to get low enough that the gas did not affect him. But it was in vain, as his vision wavered, shadowy figures approached him.
"Take him," he heard one say as he slipped into unconsciousness. "He's wanted too."
* * * * *
Bodie awoke with a splitting headache blurring his vision. He briefly wondered what was going on before recent events came flooding back with a vengeance. Some kind of stun gas, he guessed, but who were his abductors? And 'abductors' was definitely the correct word as the headache diminished to merely unbearable levels, and Bodie was able to glance around him.
He was lying on a simple cot in a nicely anonymous cell; grey walls, no windows, the only illumination being from a single, bare, light bulb. A table and two chairs, securely bolted down of course, completed the furnishings. There was no clock, and his captors had divested Bodie of his own watch, so he had no way of knowing how long he'd been out. Along with his watch, all the contents of his pockets, gun, ID, his shoes and even his socks had been taken. Whoever these men were, they were certainly professionals.
He sighed, in the circumstances it was unlikely he was getting out of here any time soon. On the basis of the ease with which he had been snatched, he was even loath to attempt any precipitous escape.
Even brooding as he was, Bodie still didn't miss the click of a key in the lock and he steeled himself to meet his captors, sending up a fervent prayer to God, Cowley and Ray Doyle that he was to be rescued soon. It was with rather a shock, therefore, for Bodie to recognise the man who walked into the cell as the door swung open. He immediately stood, straightening his spine.
"I'm glad to see you, sir."
George Cowley pushed the door closed and fixed him with a gimlet stare. "Are you?" he enquired mildly.
The Cow looked very angry, Bodie could tell. He pitied the poor fool that had trespassed on the Cow's sacred territory. "So, am I sprung then?"
"Not quite," Cowley responded. "Where's Doyle?"
"No idea. He wasn't at his flat when I was grabbed. You've not found him yet, then?"
"You have no idea where he is?"
"No. I just told you," something was niggling at the back of Bodie's mind. "What's going on? Where am I?"
Cowley sighed heavily. "I'm surprised, Bodie, that you don't recognise your surroundings. You've spent enough time in here in the past. Though I suppose it looks very different from the other side of the table."
The first stirrings of icy fear trickled down Bodie's spine as he finally realised where he was. "Headquarters. But why?"
"You are here because we believe you have information relating to the disappearance of Raymond Doyle."
"So this isn't your average debrief then? What is this about?"
"We have evidence that Doyle has been selling on information to person or persons unknown."
Bodie stared at Cowley for a long moment, absolutely sure he'd misheard him. Flopping down into one of the hard metal chairs, he willed the other man to set him straight. "Ray's not... I mean... He can't be... I mean, he's completely straight. One good copper..."
"I know," Cowley said, taking the other chair, facing Bodie. "He obviously had us all fooled."
"But he can't be. I'd know, damn it." He stared at Cowley. "You said you had evidence. How convinced are you?"
"Very convinced, for what its worth. You recall the database we had installed a couple of years ago, of course. A routine audit threw up a few discrepancies. The most notable was that there had been a number of unauthorised accesses."
"Ray?"
Cowley nodded. "No doubt about it. Although he, somehow, was able to access some of the more secure files, his talents didn't extend to doing a decent job of covering it up. When the administrator ran the relevant reports, the patterns were very clear."
"The reports could be faked," said Bodie desperately.
"We are quite content that they aren't."
"Well then, perhaps someone else got hold of his password?"
"In which case Doyle is guilty of negligence. But no. We've checked. Doyle was in the building every time there was a breach."
"How bad is it?" Bodie's voice was no more than a whisper.
Cowley pursed his lips. "Of the files he accessed, discarding those which were legitimate, up to eighty percent of the related operations soured to some extent or other. Either through loss of leads or, unfortunately, loss of life. You remember Geoff Cutting, don't you?"
Bodie nodded warily. Doyle and he had attended the fellow agent's funeral only a month before.
"The gang were suspicious of him awfully quickly, don't you think? Almost as if someone had let on that an agent would be undercover."
"But no-one knew about the operation."
"You didn't. But I did, naturally. And so did Doyle. He knew about it three days before Cutting was sent out to his death. What was Doyle doing at Wormwood Scrubs that week?"
Bodie thought back, trying desperately to think of any concrete evidence against the stack Cowley seemed to have. "He was talking to a snout. He'd had a call that the guy might have some relevant information."
"And did he?"
"No. Ray said it'd been a complete waste of time."
"Who did he go to see?"
"Ray never said."
"Were you there when Doyle took the call?"
"No."
"So you don't, in fact, know whether Doyle took the call or not."
"He said he'd taken the call. That was good enough for me. At the time." Bodie rubbed at his forehead. "I still don't believe it. Ray is less likely to be a double agent than I am!"
"That I can believe, which is what I am trying to find out. The question is, are you?"
"You think... Ray and I... Oh Christ."
Cowley stared impassively back.
Bodie took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. This was not the time to start getting angry. "For what it's worth, Sir. I'm not."
"I appreciate your directness, Bodie," Cowley remarked, dryly, "However, in the circumstances, you will appreciate that I don't take that as read, quite yet."
"And do you have any 'evidence' against me?"
Cowley shrugged. "All evidence against you is circumstantial at best. The most compelling being your sexual relationship with Doyle."
"Relationship?" Bodie was thunderstruck as much at the choice of words as the fact that Cowley knew about their occasional off-duty activities. Finding his voice, he protested. "A few rough-and-tumble encounters hardly constitutes a 'relationship'."
“On the contrary. You’ve been having sex together on a regular basis for nearly three years. Marriages have been built on less."
Three years? Well, it had been a lot longer than that since their first time. Ray had managed to trip Bodie into bed within weeks of them being first paired. Not that a bed had actually been used, of course. But there had been a lot more times in the recent past than there had been to start with. There was just something comforting about bedding someone you were close to, knew all their secrets, all the little details about how to turn them on. No fuss or hassle. No forking out for plays or meals when all you wanted was just comfortable fun. And, in a life that was never comfortable and rarely fun, it was a little bit of something to cling on to.
"Give over, Sir. Neither Ray nor I are queer. It's just a bit of fun, that's all."
"And does Doyle feel the same?"
"Of course he does." Where did the old git get off suggesting that about him? Of course Bodie wouldn't make a fuss if Ray called a halt to their extra-curricular activities. There were plenty of willing bed-mates to be had around the city. Bodie had never forced such an issue yet and wasn't about to.
Cowley raised an eyebrow, but dropped the subject. Instead he went back to the most pressing matter. "So, you've definitely no idea where Doyle has gone?"
"No idea. He left mine a bit after eleven last night saying he needed to get some sleep. I arranged to meet him at his first thing this morning with breakfast as he didn't have anything in, what with the last stint undercover. I expected him to be at his flat, but when I got there the flat was empty. I went through the place and determined Ray hadn't been home last night. I was just about to call it in when the heavies arrived and I ended up here."
"And he gave no indication of going elsewhere?"
"No! He said he had things to do. I automatically assumed it was things like cleaning up. Doing the laundry, picking up some milk. That sort of thing."
"Yet you made sure you included milk in your groceries this morning."
Bodie frowned. Of course Ray had left late last night. "Figure of speech. Ray left after eleven last night; there wouldn't have been anywhere open."
Cowley merely pulled a small notebook out of his top pocket and noted something down, making quite a show of the act of retrieving and replacing the pad. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"Not at the moment. But if there's anything I can think of, I'll be sure to let you know." Bodie was pretty sure he'd kept the sarcasm out of his voice.
"You do that." And Cowley stood to take his leave.
"How long am I likely to remain here?"
"Until I say so, 3.7."
3.7? Well things were looking more positive. "Well, if I'm to be here for a bit, would it be possible to get a pen and some paper? So I can start noting down anything that comes to me?"
Cowley nodded. "I'll see what I can do," and with that he left Bodie alone with his thoughts.
* * * * *
It had taken several hours before Murphy had appeared to release Bodie; in a toneless voice explaining that Bodie was now on suspension and that he, Murphy, was to escort him back to his flat. Bodie didn't really register anything at first, turning the problem over and over in his head, and only noticed how uncharacteristically silent Murphy had been on the drive back when the car pulled up on his road.
"So what kind of trick do you think the Cow is pulling now?" Bodie asked, turning to his friend.
Murphy frowned. "You what?"
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it? Cutting Ray and me loose like this. Though I wish he'd not keep his cards so close to his chest. It gets really frustrating when you're second guessing yourself all the time. 'Is this the way the Cow is expecting me to jump' and all that. Can get someone killed that way."
"Bodie," Murphy interjected, "What are you talking about?"
"This whole 'double agent' malarkey. It's so obviously a ruse. Ray wouldn't do a thing like that. So it's therefore part of something bigger."
Murphy shook his head. "I don't know, Bodie. It seems very real to me."
"And you really think that Ray would sell out CI5? For money?" Bodie was incredulous.
"Barry Martin." Murphy remarked as a response. "Look, all I know is that when the Cow found out three days ago, I've never seen him so angry. Then he spent the next forty-eight hours trying, and failing, to disprove the allegations. He felt sure enough about them to bring you both in this morning."
"There's no way Ray would sell out. Period."
"Alfred Cole. Even Nigel Dawson," Murphy continued. "I know it's hard to believe that of someone you trusted, but if I were you, I'd start getting used to it. Doyle was your partner. If you don't do act the right way now, you're never going to get the faint smell of corruption off you. Keep your head down, wait for Cowley to come round. And, if it does turn out that there is a grander plan at work, well you'll find out soon enough."
"You really do believe that, don't you? Some bloody friend you are." Bodie couldn't believe his ears.
"I don't believe it, I don't not believe it. All I know is that if it's a set-up it's a bloody good one. I was there when Patrick pulled up the logs and he was so worried that he got me to go along with him to tell the Cow. And if it is a set-up, then you'd do better not to spread it around, if you see what I mean."
"But what's your gut feeling?" Bodie pressed.
"Given the right inducement, anyone will turn; you just need to find the handle. Money, power, threats against loved ones; they've all been used before. But I don't have to have a gut feeling about this. Doyle wasn't, isn't my partner. I don't have to be dragged in on all this. And you'd be a fool to blindly trust him. Either of them. If Doyle isn't a double agent, find the evidence to prove it."
"Bleeding fence-sitter.".
Murphy shrugged. "Better than jumping in with both feet and making the wrong call. Look, if I were you, I'd do as the Cow said. Stay down and out the way of any live investigations. He'll soon drag you back. God knows, we're always short-handed as it is."
Bodie nodded and got out of the car. "Ray's not, and never has been, a traitor, Murph," he warned.
"Watch your back," the other agent said in response and pulled off into the evening traffic.
Bodie made his way into his flat, not bothering to put any lights on and poured a large scotch by feel alone. Twenty-four hours ago Ray and he…
He took a large mouthful and felt it warm him down to his stomach. What was going on? If it was all a huge set-up, then why hadn't anything been said? Perhaps he was just waiting for the phone to ring. He glanced to the offending object, but it remained silent. Cowley would've have said something. He was the Controller of CI5. Somehow, if it was a big operation, he'd have got some kind of word to Bodie, not let him stay in the dark like this.
Unless he had only needed Ray. But that wouldn't make sense either. This sort of cloak and dagger game would only serve to rip his most successful team apart. It would be a hell of a sacrifice to make. There were easier ways of getting Ray out of the picture without resorting to widespread accusations of betrayal. For a start Cowley could've told Bodie about the plan.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
So what about the other side of the coin? Perhaps Ray really had done what Cowley had said. Scuppered investigations for goodness knows what reason. But that would only work if there was a reason behind it. And this was Ray. Why no message from him, some kind of explanation. Perhaps he was in trouble; perhaps he was trying to get information to him right now.
In a daze, Bodie went through the entire flat, searching for anything that could be construed as a message, ransacking every cupboard, turning over every drawer in hopes that the key to the entire mystery was sellotaped to the bottom of one. But there was nothing.
As there shouldn't be, Bodie conceded as he sat back down on his sofa, grabbing the entire bottle this time. His flat would have been professionally picked over this morning, after he had been taken in for questioning. As would Ray's. If had been any clue left in either flat, Cowley already had it.
And Ray would know that, would know that they would detain Bodie was well. One half of the mobile ghetto, it would be obvious that whatever one was suspected of, the other would have to work twice as hard to clear himself of, regardless of guilt. So Ray would be looking to get a message through in a different way. One of his snouts, perhaps. Assuming he could get near to one.
Bodie grabbed a pencil and paper and started to write down everyone Ray had ever referred to and where he might find them. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He would start in the morning, once he could ascertain what kind of watch the Cow had placed on him. And he was in no doubt that there would be surveillance. If Cowley still suspected him as well, then this little charade of 'you're a free man' would send him to join Ray. And if he didn't, then Cowley would still be interested in the moves Bodie would make in order to clear Ray's name.
He poured another, larger drink and settled back, trying to avoid the little voice at the back of his head asking 'what if Doyle had turned?' Murph had said that anyone could turn, you just needed to find the right button to push. Bodie knew that it could be true of himself, given the right circumstances. Of course they would have to be extreme. Couldn't see himself going against the Cow, unless of course, the Cow himself was proved to be corrupt.
Chance'd be a fine thing..
But what would be Doyle's button? And had it been pushed? It wouldn't be mere money. Ray might be legendarily tight-fisted, but it was just that. A legend. He didn't care about it, that's all. Sex? Nah, the Golly got enough of that with him didn't he?
Bodie sat up straight. Blackmail? Had someone found out about their occasional fucks and was using that to pressurise Ray into betrayal? Christ. Cowley said this had been going on two years. No wonder Ray'd been so jumpy around him and the subject of sex in the recent past. What with that hanging over him. At least two years. Did the bastards have photos…?
He hurled the now-empty scotch glass at the wall where it shattered. Hands balled into fists, he jumped up, ready for action. He would hunt them down and…
No, that wouldn't work. He collapsed back down on the sofa. Ray would've spoken to him. He wouldn’t have caved in like that. And anyway, what would the mysterious 'they' have done, if their attempt didn't work? He and Ray weren't important enough to splash it over the papers and it matter. They had no family worth speaking of and the Cow knew. Unofficially of course, but he did know. Dismissal wouldn't be half as bad as the bawling out they would get for not noticing the surveillance. And neither were worth two years of passing information on, souring operations, getting agents killed…
Having deprived himself of the glass, Bodie took a pull straight from the bottle. No, it wasn't blackmail, or at least not of that sort. Perhaps they'd promised Ray a really rare motorcycle. He chuckled slightly then grimaced. That really wasn't funny. The whole point of blackmail was that the very act trapped you. The original price would be very different to the amount a victim could end up paying, just to cover up the subsequent betrayals. A very nasty business, all round.
It was getting late now, but Bodie didn't want to move. He had nothing to get up for in the morning, other than to pound the streets, something he'd never liked doing. And he was reluctant to go to bed. The memories surrounding that simple piece of furniture were confusing and bittersweet. He was already missing the bugger and it'd been barely twenty-four hours since he last set eyes on him. Damn Ray for vanishing like that and damn Cowley for detaining him without cause. And damn himself for feeling like this. Feeling betrayed and bereft, he curled up on the sofa and slept.
* * * * *
Monday 12th March
Armed with the list of Doyle's informers and with little else to do, Bodie spent the next week or so trawling through the seedier side of London. As time went on without any contact, either from CI5 or Doyle, it became more likely that Doyle had been turned and had betrayed them. All Bodie could do was keep his head down and try to gather as much information as he could.
Fairly unsurprisingly, he had little luck in this second task; the few informers he did track down knew nothing. And several seemed to be untraceable. Doyle's little irregular army were a very different bunch to his own; being mostly small-time crooks and opportunists.
After another fruitless day searching the streets, Bodie finally decided to take the weight off his feet and relax a little. Finding himself in the depths of Whitechapel, he spied an old pub sign and made his way over to the rundown inn. He pushed the door open and made his way over to the bar.
The inside of the pub was as grubby and old as the outside, the air was thick with stale tobacco smoke, staining the tiling and ceiling dark brown. A bored barmaid, looking about as rundown as the pub itself, came over and took Bodie's order, pulling an insipid pint into a grubby glass before retiring to the other end of the bar and her newspaper.
Bodie propped himself up at the bar and took a sip of the uninspiring liquid, grimacing at the taste before glancing round the pub. It was quiet for a Saturday, but the pub was well off the beaten track. No doubt its regular punters were still at the betting shop or minding their market stalls, if any of them were actually gainfully employed around here.
There were one or two men sat at the haphazardly placed tables. A thin, scruffy man sat at a table just to Bodie's left nursing a whisky and staring into space. And a portly gentleman was sat at the back, florid face stuck in the sporting section of one of the local rags. As Bodie looked at him the man waved a hand to the barmaid and, with a cheerful "Liza, another of the same," received a pint of the same weak brew Bodie had ordered.
As Bodie glanced around, he spotted a man walking back through the door from the toilets. The man had his head down, staring at something in his hands, but as he finally looked up, Bodie immediately recognised him as one of the snouts on his list, Martin Reese.
Unfortunately the man seemed also to recognise Bodie and immediately turned tail, pocketing the object and vanishing back the way he had come. Bodie immediately gave chase, almost knocking down the barmaid in his hurry. He left her startled "Oy!" behind as he turned through the doorway and down the short, vile-smelling corridor and burst through the fire exit at the back.
The weak sunlight was still strong to his eyes as he adjusted from the gloom of the public bar. He glanced around and spotted Martin as he disappeared around the corner and he immediately gave chase.
Martin led him a merry chase through the back ways and alleyways of Whitechapel, but the gutter-rat was no match for the highly-trained CI5 agent on his heels. Bodie finally caught him in an alleyway between two boarded up shops, grabbing at his shirt collar and twisting his arm up his back, pinning him to the alleyway wall.
"Now then, Martin, is that any way to greet a mate?"
"Who the bloody 'ell are you?" Martin complained, voice slightly muffled by the wall.
"Oh, you know me, Martin. I sure as hell know you."
"'Ow can I tell 'oo you are if I can't see your face, eh? Let up, Mister."
Bodie eased off slightly, letting go of the man's wrist, but not letting go of the shirt collar. Martin turned round and squinted at Bodie. Then a burst of minted halitosis assailed his nostrils as the man chuckled. "Copper. Yeah, I do know you. Friends with that bugger Doyle, right?"
"That's right. And I'm looking for him."
"Ah, now there's a man who's done alright for 'isself. But seriously copper, I don't know nothin'." Martin started to struggle in Bodie's grip and so Bodie leaned his weight forward, effectively pinning the smaller man against the wall.
"Of course, I could just nick you. I'm quite sure I'd find something usefully incriminating in your pockets. Coke, may be? Even some H, perhaps?" Bodie started to dip his free hand into Martin's pocket. "But I'm sure you wouldn't like that. Not our type of cell, where a man's solicitor might take days or weeks to find him? No?" His hand stilled as Martin shook his head, vehemently. "Okay, now let us start again. What do you mean 'done all right?' Have you seen him recently?"
Martin slumped slightly in defeat. "Nah, not me. Sir Stephen wouldn't 'ave the likes of me 'anging round 'is place."
Bodie pushed him harder into the wall. "But you know something."
"Not exactly. Tiny Johnson is 'oo's bin seein' Mr. Doyle. Tiny's been doing a spot of chauffeuring for 'is Lordship. Ferryin' this 'n' that all over the place. 'twas 'im that tole me of Mr. Doyle's change of career. Rather surprised both me and Tiny, that did. What with Mr. Doyle being such a conscientious copper."
"What was Doyle doing?"
"Tiny din't say. But 'e did say that Mr. Doyle was well in there. So 'im and Sir Stephen must be good pals, eh?"
"And where is he?"
"Where 'e is now, I don't rightly know, not being there with him." Martin chuckled, but hurriedly carried on as Bodie pushed again. "Tiny saw 'im down at Sir Stephen's place in Surrey. Caxted 'All. Beautiful 'ouse it is. Not that I've 'ad a chance to have a look see, of course. Parts of the interior are rumoured to have been designed by Owen Jones hisself. Fancy that, eh?"
"Yeah, yeah. Caxted Hall, you say? Thank you."
Bodie let go and Martin immediately scarpered off, vanishing back into the woodwork from whence he came. Bodie himself walked slowly out of the alley, hands in his pockets, thinking furiously. So Doyle could, finally, be run to ground. He was torn between letting Cowley know. After all, if Doyle was rotten then he would definitely need back-up. But, on the other hand, if Doyle was innocent, then setting the dogs on him now would be the last thing he needed. Shaking his head, he turned to wander back to the tube and home, when a hand on his shoulder arrested his progress.
Whipping immediately around, Bodie too late recognised the man standing behind him; pulling his punch as much as he was able, Bodie still managed to knock him to the ground. Immediately he put out a hand to pull the other man back to his feet and started to curse. "You stupid bugger, Davids. I could've killed you if I'd been a split second slower in recognising your weasely face."
"I thing you broke my nobe," Davids complained, prodding at the injured appendage cautiously and wincing.
"Here," Bodie dragged out an almost-clean handkerchief to staunch the slow flow of blood. "I thought you were meant to be merely observing me from a distance. Why the tough act?"
"Didb't realise you'd seeb me. Ouch. Anyway, The Cow wabts to see you prondo."
"He's at the office?"
"No, aroubd the corber, waitig for you."
Damn, Bodie thought as he left the unfortunate Davids behind and jogged around the corner to spot the blue Granada that Cowley currently favoured.
"3.7," Cowley snapped as Bodie peered in the window. "Get in please, no lollygagging around."
"Where are we off to?" Bodie asked as he settled in the front passenger seat and turned round to address his boss. Immediately the dour-faced Stanley, Cowley's driver for the week, got the car underway.
"I'm off to Surrey. Thanks to you, I'm now running late. I'll drop you off as soon as you've finished so you better be quick if you don't want to walk all the way back. Now, what the hell were you doing? May I remind you, you're still on suspension? You were told to stay well away from any live investigations."
"Can't a man go to a pub in peace?" Bodie asked innocently.
"Don't play with me, boy. It's fairly obvious you've been tracking down any and all of Doyle's informants you can find. Source, please."
Bodie grumbled, but drew the list from his pocket and handed it over to Cowley.
Cowley scanned through it, noting each of the names. "Did you get anywhere with it?"
"Yeah, some. Martin Reese, a rather greasy individual, forwarded a rumour that Doyle was hiding out at Sir Stephen Somebody's place. Caxted Hall, I think."
"Caxted Hall?" Cowley appeared visibly surprised. "How reliable is that?"
Bodie shrugged. "I really couldn't say, to be honest. Reese appeared to be on the level, but it wasn't first hand. Why?"
"Caxted Hall is where we were heading off to now. Trouble has been brewing down there for a couple of weeks. We believe a big shipment of armaments was delivered there two days ago."
"Reese said that Tiny Johnson had been 'chauffeuring' all around the place. Sounds like that's what he's been chauffeuring."
"Indeed. You better step on it, Stanley. We would do well to get down there as soon as possible."
As Stanley eased the car across the river, Bodie felt it safe to question Cowley a little more. "So who is this Sir Stephen then?"
"Sir Stephen Chase. Once owner of one the country's largest military hardware manufacturers. He's been gradually moving into the more modern methods of killing people - chemical and biological warfare. All hush, hush of course. Though our own Government has been quite the funder of his activities, one way or another. Interestingly, he's also an international jet-setting glamour photographer."
"Now that's a little bit different to his day job," Bodie drawled.
"Quite. But it's a good cover for what we suspect is also a little bit of illegal gun-running."
Bodie chuckled. "I wonder which side of the business Doyle is on. I could just see him puckering up for the cameras."
Cowley just glared at Bodie and Bodie, wisely, shut up.
* * * * *
By the time Bodie, Cowley and Stanley had made it to Caxted Hall, that remote corner of Merrie England more resembled a war zone. A helicopter was parked on the lawns behind the house and CI5 agents had it under fire. Even as Bodie spilled out of the car, immediately running round the other side to take cover, the rotors on the helicopter started up, flattening the grass beneath it with the displacement of the air. A cry, several yards ahead and to the right, had Bodie take off immediately towards it, running in a low crouch to avoid being hit by one of the bullets whizzing between the two sides. Bodie swore he could hear Cowley above the noise of the battle, bellowing for him to not be a fool and come back, but whomever it was up there who had cried out sounded as if he needed the back-up and only Bodie was near enough and good enough to provide it.
Bodie drew level with the small dug-out and peered in; it was Murphy. A stray bullet had clipped his shoulder and he was having problems returning fire. Bodie immediately shoved him over, taking possession of the rifle and, when Murphy made to argue, hissed "take care of yourself," before looking over the top of the inadequate cover and assessing the situation. Only two of the opposition were still returning fire, pinned down and unable to reach the cover of the helicopter. Bodie focussed on them, fixing their position before covering it with a hail of fire. The range was long and Bodie despaired of actually hitting them at this distance, but he eventually managed it, bringing both of them down, even as the helicopter started to rise from the ground.
Bodie immediately fixed on its position, joining the other agents in returning fire at the two shooting from the sides of the chopper. It was tight, the range was even longer this time, but as the helicopter rose higher in the air and started to swing round, a lucky shot got through, appearing to pierce the fuel tank beneath and causing the craft to immediately burst into a fireball, raining fiery debris on the ground below.
Bodie cried out, partly in surprise and partly in a heady rush of adrenalin. "My God! Look at that! That's the sort of thing that only ever happens in films!"
Then as a kind of peace started to descend on the ravaged estate, he belatedly remembered Murphy.
Murphy was still conscious, but was sporting a pinched, white look that Bodie could sympathise with. "How is it?"
"Hurts," grunted Murphy, pressing down hard on the freely-bleeding wound. "Feels like the bullet is still in there, but I don't think anything is broken."
"Well, come on then, let's see if we can get you patched up and see what the Cow has to say."
Cowley obviously had plenty to say as Bodie and Murphy approached, Bodie half-supporting Murphy in his pain. He was lecturing a hapless Anson on the meaning of "discreet" as they drew within earshot and Cowley immediately turned on Bodie.
"I told you to stay out of this, Bodie."
"Murphy was taken out of action," Bodie started to argue. "Someone had to do something."
"That's as may be, but I distinctly remember warning you not to get involved in any live investigations while you were on suspension." He cast an eye over the injured agent. "Och, go get that seen to, 6.2, before you bleed all over the car."
Murph nodded and took himself off to the ambulance that had just arrived on the scene.
"Apart from Grayson, we think; that is the only other injury. On our side."
"What happened to Grayson, sir?"
"Caught whilst on surveillance. We think he was executed."
"Damn."
"He was able to give some information before he was captured, however. He positively identified two of the men. One was Sir Stephen."
"And the other?" Bodie enquired, though the sinking sensation in his gut was proof enough he already knew what Cowley was going to say.
Cowley looked beyond Bodie, out towards the clean-up which was just starting. "It was Doyle."
* * * * *
Tuesday 13th March
Next morning, Bodie arrived early at Headquarters, as summoned by Cowley. Cowley wasted no time, sliding Bodie's ID across the table.
"In the circumstances, you're re-instated as of now."
"You've concluded your investigation?"
"Not quite, but I'm content. And I need all my men."
Bodie nodded. The idea of still being under suspicion for treason was unpalatable, but at least he would be working.
"Is there any more news on the incident yesterday, sir?"
"Incident? Damn disaster, that's what it was. The general public don't generally appreciate their stately homes being blown up. Especially when it's due to some fool mistake like yesterday. And I don't either."
"Mistake?"
"Grayson getting in the way. The man should've stayed out of sight better."
"Well, he paid a heavy price for it."
"Aye, that is true." Cowley sighed and rubbed his face. Then he reached into one of his drawers and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. He added a generous measure of whisky to each glass before putting the bottle away and handing one of the glasses to Bodie.
Bodie accepted the glass and took a generous sip of the liquor before speaking. "And it's all a bit funny, isn't it? We'd heard about the shipment two days ago, but we'd not heard anything about them moving out. But they were definitely primed and ready to do so. Even if Grayson hadn't been spotted, I doubt that would've stopped the fire fight yesterday."
Cowley nodded ruefully. "I know, Bodie."
"How did we find out about the shipment?"
"Special Branch. And there's no point us chasing it there. It will only turn out to be some constable with a rumour from an informant, as usual."
"An informant like Martin Reese, perhaps?"
"Aye, good thinking. You better check that out. See who else he might have told."
Bodie nodded. "I'll get on to it. What about Tiny Johnson?"
"Killed in the crossfire, unfortunately. So there's no way of tracing that back. Martin Reese is our best bet, if you can find him."
"You think he might disappear?"
"It's a possibility, at least. Everyone else seems to be a dead end. We can't rule it out."
"Everyone else, meaning Doyle."
Cowley drained his glass. "And Stephen Chase. The three in the helicopter have been identified as Sir Stephen, his pilot Tim Eames and Ray Doyle. It was rigged to explode on take off."
"So, not such a lucky shot then?"
"No. Whoever Doyle's new masters were, they obviously weren’t taking any chances. We've positive IDs on the first two, but Doyle was sitting on the device when it went off. There's precious little left to identify."
"So the body might not be his?"
"Evidence says it is. Doyle's gun and R/T were recovered at the scene. And we're sure the gun was used to kill Grayson."
"Damn." Bodie clenched his fists. "Ray didn't want Grayson to ID him."
"Yes. I'm sorry, Bodie."
Bodie shrugged. The smoke from the exploding helicopter still tasted of bitter defeat at the back of his throat. "The bastard had it coming, didn't he? And it's a beautiful piece of irony, the betrayer betrayed. I just hope it was worth it."
* * * * *
Thursday 31st May
Liverpool hadn’t really changed much in the two decades since Bodie had last seen the place, it was still as dreary and run-down as he remembered. Especially here, round the docks. Even more so, perhaps. The pub he had finally fetched up in, avoiding wasting too much shoe leather and the ever-present Northern drizzle, certainly had seen better days. Come to think of it, the scotch in his hand and the rather stale cheese rolls he had charmed out of the barmaid earlier, they'd obviously seen better days as well.
He didn’t even really know why he was here, except that while Cowley’s ‘friend’ had him cooling his heels, there really wasn't anything else to do.
Damned Cowley. In the ten weeks since he'd been back on the squad, and after failing to run Martin Reese to ground, Bodie had mostly been on solo milk runs - 'guard this minor diplomat here', 'pick up this package there' - and it was wearing thin. It wasn't even as if Bodie resented the fact the Cow couldn't trust him with anything more. That was a given, in the circumstances. But without the satisfaction of a hard-won chase and far too much time in which to avoid thinking, Bodie was fairly sure he was even closer to insane than usual.
It was evident that the rest of the squad thought the same. While tentative 'welcome backs' had been extended when The Cow had seen fit to grant back Bodie's armoury and ID, that hand of friendship had been very tentative indeed once the other agents had realised what kind of black mood they were most likely to encounter.
Last week's victim had been the vending machine in the tiny break room. In its failure to come up with either his money back or the brown liquid purporting to be tea, the machine had lost most of its cheery plastic front. And it was highly unlikely that the dispensing nozzle would ever be the same again.
No, Bodie really couldn't blame them for steering clear. Even if it did mean that he spent more time in his own company. But that wasn't so bad, to be honest. Now that he was on his own there was no negotiation for every bit of pleasure. He didn't have to go running if the weather was bad, he could stay in and watch the gogglebox. Or go out and pick up one of the thousands of willing and single birds that inhabited the city. Not that there had been many of those, recently. But there had been a lot of running.
Bodie frowned. Well, there was always a period of transition when work patterns changed. He would just have to get re-used to working alone - no inconvenient interruptions when writing reports, no distracting buzz-saw snore on long obbos, no regaling of tall tales in order to keep each other awake…
Bodie snapped off that thought. It would just be like the Cow to saddle him with another no-hoper partner just as the idea of none was growing on him.
He swigged up the whisky and ordered another. No reason not to get drunk at the moment. General Tarporley had made it clear that no answer would be forthcoming today and therefore Bodie better pay for another night at the dreadful bed and breakfast and find something else to do as he couldn't have layabouts generally mucking up the place.
Bloody Cowley, he thought again. Why he even needed an agent up here, picking up some missive from such a pompous ass like the General, Bodie couldn't think. Unless the Cow was trying to drive Bodie to either suicide or murder. That'd prove a point then, wouldn’t it? If Bodie turned out like…
Well, turned out like Bodie, really. He'd done enough killing for the scantiest of reasons back in Africa. Not that it seemed so at the time.
The place was starting to fill up now, Dock workers just off shift coming in to waste their meagre pay packets before staggering home to beat up their wives and kids. Same old, same old. It never changed really. Bodie merited barely a glance, he knew how to fit in places like this.
But that man over there, with his back to him at the other end of the bar, obviously didn't. His challengers were almost clones of each other, tall, heavy and muscled. At just above average height and thin, the man was instantly set apart from them in his almost emaciated appearance.
I wonder what he was banged up for? Bodie thought dispassionately as he took in the severe crew-cut of the man's bleached-blond hair. No tattoos were visible on the man's hairless forearms as he gesticulated at the other men, but the pale blue shirt he was wearing, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, would hide a multitude of sins.
Whatever it was, I doubt it was for GBH, Bodie inwardly chuckled, glad for a diversion, but also scoping out his own quick exit should the argument get physical. It wouldn't do his current standing with Cowley any good to be caught up in a pub brawl when he was supposed to be keeping his head down here.
The argument was getting more heated. From the little Bodie could hear, it seemed that the man with the blond crew-cut was being derided for drinking in a docker's pub while under suspicion of being a poof. Normal bully-boy tactics from the three brick-shithouse-built dock workers spoiling for a fight and not having the wit to pick on someone a little closer to their own weight-class if they wanted the bout to last more than two seconds.
Then Blondy shifted his weight, back muscles rippling under his shirt and Bodie rose without thinking, moving to the right and behind, not-so-coincidentally blocking off the nearest entrance to the bar in his silent approach.
Doyle's really going to need some help here…
The thought flickered in his mind unbidden and Bodie realised he'd moved to back up his partner, as he would've done any day of the week, before. But his partner was gone. Had betrayed the squad, had betrayed him, and had paid the ultimate price.
Grief stabbed through him, shocking in its intensity. Bodie turned, stumbling blindly through the door to his right and out into the late afternoon sunshine. An alleyway to the left afforded at least a small degree of privacy and he ran towards it, before falling to his knees, throwing up his meagre lunch. The whisky burned at his throat and he retched again, heaving in great gulps of air as he shook uncontrollably.
Finally after some time, the heaving and shaking ceased and Bodie sat back on his haunches, wiping his face and mouth with a dodgy service station serviette he had found stuffed in one pocket.
Cowley was right not to trust him, but not for any suspicion of selling-out. He'd lost his edge, his nerves gone like Macklin. He was no good to the squad like this, falling apart at the vaguest hint of a physical altercation.
It was time he had done with it. Take up something a little less nerve-wracking. Something where you didn't have to rely on a partner to watch your back, something that just him and himself alone. Other people were a liability, he'd learned that lesson long ago, and it was his own failure that he had let Doyle in as far as he had. No. Never let anyone close enough to twist that knife. That was the true secret of survival.
Bodie stood, braced against the brick wall for a moment to regain his balance. First things first; get the old duffer to cough up the promised documents. Then head back to London to hand them over, along with his own resignation letter.
Purpose set at last, he strode out of the alley and down the road.
Continue to Part Two
Author: Andromeda
Proslib / Circuit Archive: Yes
Pairing and/or characters: Bodie/Doyle, everyone.
Rating: Definitely Adult
Word Count: 9,900 / 33,000
Notes: With massive thanks to cuvalwen who has been doing sterling work as both a beta and ideas bouncer. This seriously wouldn't have been written if not for her. Also thanks to my other beta reader, Ian (WOLJ), who discovered the gaping plot hole without, quite, falling in it.
Summary: When Doyle vanishes after acting strangely, everyone wonders what is going on. It doesn't take long for Bodie and Cowley to realise there's a lot more to this than meets the eye.
Disclaimer: The Professionals are the property of Mark 1 Productions and London Weekend Television. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall
Part One
Through the corridors of sleep
Past the shadows dark and deep
My mind dances and leaps in confusion.
I don't know what is real, I can't touch what I feel
And I hide behind the shield of my illusion.
Flowers Never Bend with the Rainfall - Simon and Garfunkel
Friday 24th February
"Harder!"
Bodie canted his hips higher and arched his back as he cried out his demand. His fingers clawing at the rumpled sheets as he tried to find the purchase to meet the more brutal pace Doyle obligingly provided.
"Come on!"
As Doyle's thrusts grew ever harder and faster, his grip on Bodie's hips became tight enough to bruise. But Bodie relished the physical connection; that hard, calloused grip providing a proof of identity that Doyle's habitual silence could not provide. Meanwhile, Bodie was loud enough for them both, his moans and curses all but masking the creak of the ancient bed beneath them.
Bodie's cock, purposely neglected, was rosy and still wet from Doyle's mouth. His hands trembled as the temptation to take himself in hand grew stronger, but he resisted, balling them into fists, wanting this to last as long as possible.
His upper thighs slid across sweat-slick shoulders as he attempted to pull himself higher, closer, by force of will alone. He bit his lip, tasting copper and salt. He needed this connection, needed to feel possessed, owned, by the man half-crouching over him. Bodie wanted to freeze this moment forever, preserve this perfect piece of teamwork, never to let go.
"Not yet, not yet, not yet, not yet..."
But it couldn't last. With a final cry, half of triumph, half of disappointment, he came, his whole body convulsing out of control, his release spattering across his chest. Lost in his own orgasm, he barely registered Doyle's own orgasm, moments later.
Seconds or hours later Bodie slid his legs from Doyle’s shoulders as the other man carefully withdrew. He spread his legs further apart as Doyle came to rest between them on his knees, hands either side of Bodie's head, back arched over him, the damp auburn curls tickling his face. Doyle drew in a few shuddering breaths before raising his head to meet Bodie's gaze. Bodie grinned up at his partner and noticed Doyle's stare soften slightly in the half-light of the bedside lamp before the other man jerked back, sliding off the bed and onto his feet.
Bodie stretched languorously, wincing slightly as sore muscles at the base of his spine made themselves felt. "That was…" he started to say before finally registering the deliberate movements next to him. He turned to face Doyle. "What are you doing?"
Doyle paused, one leg in his jeans. "What does it look like?"
"Oh." Bodie thought for a moment. "I thought you'd stay a while."
"And do what, exactly?" Doyle's tone of voice was odd.
"I don't know. Share a beer or two. Catch the match."
Doyle nodded towards the clock on the bedside table. "Bit late for that, isn't it? Match finished ages ago."
Bodie squinted. It was, indeed later than he had first thought. "Huh, I didn't realise it was so late. Time obviously flies when you're having fun."
Doyle forbore to comment and stood, pulling his skin-tight jeans over his hips.
"Well, there's still time for that beer, if you fancy it?"
"Nah, got things to see, people to do. You know how it is."
Bodie grinned. "You certainly did me. Well, if you're sure?"
Doyle nodded, slipping on his trainers and looking around for a moment. "Any idea where my shirt is?"
Bodie propped himself up on his elbows. "Probably somewhere in the hall. S'where the action started, after all."
"Don't remind me," Doyle muttered and Bodie frowned.
"Anything up?"
"No." Doyle sounded defensive. "Why should there be?"
"Well, it's not like you to run off so soon." Except it was, lately. Doyle had been up and out of the flat before the afterglow had worn off the last few times they'd engaged in this particular extra-curricular piece of teamwork..
Doyle shook his head. "As I said, I've got things to do. And I could do with the sleep, considering the jobs The Cow has had us on for weeks. I'm beginning to forget what my own bed looks like."
That, at least, was true. Three weeks undercover for Doyle, before being flung headlong into the op that had netted the squad a tidy ring of bombers. But still.
"You could always…" Bodie started, before falling silent, confused as to what he was saying.
Doyle's gaze turned sharp. "What?"
"Doesn't matter." Bodie muttered, knowing any invitation would be rebuffed. "Hey, if we're on report-writing duty tomorrow, we'll get out at a reasonable time. Fancy sinking a couple of pints down at the Black Lion after work?"
Doyle's sigh was long-suffering. "Who is she?"
"New barmaid. Biggest knockers in Hammersmith, no lie. Bound to be a raver. I'll even let you have a punt, sporting-like, if you want."
"That's jolly decent of you," Doyle snapped back, sarcastically.
"You can soften her up a bit before I go in for the kill."
"And if she fancies me?"
"Well, I wouldn't want to make it with anyone mentally deficient, now would I? You'd be welcome to her."
That pronouncement was met with stony silence. Doyle turned to the bedroom door.
"Hey," Bodie tried one more time.
Doyle stopped, back to him.
"I'll pick you up tomorrow."
Doyle half-turned back to the bed. "Now who's mentally deficient? Have you forgotten that I drove you back earlier, after your wheels met with that mishap with the forklift truck?"
Bodie had forgotten, but he was not about to admit that. "Well, in that case, I'll swing by yours early. You can cook me breakfast and then you can drive us both in."
"With what? Three weeks undercover, remember. The refrigerator has probably grown new life in that time."
This was getting ridiculous. "I'll bring something over."
"You do that. I'm off; else I'll never get home." He swung the door open and vanished through it.
"See you tomorrow, Ray," Bodie called after him, but Doyle didn't answer him and a few moments later he heard the front door close and lock.
Bodie grabbed a handful of tissues before turning his back to the door. He pulled the creased and sweat-damp sheets over him, feeling hard done by. Bloody Doyle, going and ruining the mood like that. He pummelled at the pillows, trying to get comfortable. What had got into the man anyway? It wasn’t as if this time hadn’t been all his idea. All Bodie had done was suggest takeaway and a few beers in front of the game. That didn’t necessarily equate with fucking. Though Bodie had hoped that would be the culmination of the evening, of course. Anyone would. Doyle was damned good at it. But the invitation hadn’t been issued with that in mind, entirely. After the undercover job he’d just been on Doyle would want some time to unwind, become himself again.
But Doyle had had other ideas. Barely had Bodie locked the front door, than Doyle was on him, pushing Bodie hard against the wall, scrabbling at his clothes. Caught up in this whirlwind of lust and need, when Doyle had growled “Bedroom. Now." Bodie could only follow.
Damn, but the Golly was a firecracker when he was worked up.
So what was eating at him? Agonising over the last job? But it had been a success, the only injuries worth writing home about on the wrong side. Bodie himself had sustained a few cuts and bruises as he had leapt out of the way of a wayward forklift truck, but it was nothing unusual. Everyone caught bang to rights. It had been just another job.
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps Doyle was getting dissatisfied with the job full stop.
That gave him pause. Perhaps Doyle was thinking about upping and leaving him - him and the rest of CI5, of course - without a word or by your leave.
Never. Doyle wouldn’t do that to a mate. Too bloody conscientious by half, that boy. But still, he might just be working himself up to a resignation speech.
Bodie frowned to himself. How long had this been going on? He thought back, but he couldn’t pin-point a change. It had happened so gradually.
These episodes of mind-blowing sex were infrequent enough, especially considering the punishing pace the Cow had set them recently. Which was worrying in itself. But that was a thought for another time. Bodie really didn’t have the mental energy to worry about Cowley and Doyle at the same time.
But what to do about Doyle? He couldn't be serious about leaving him. Doyle just needed taking out of himself, that was all. A few pints with the rest of the squad, a darts match or two. Pick up that barmaid together, perhaps.
Yeah, that was it. A night of uncomplicated fun is just what the Bodie ordered. The two of them taking it in turns with a willing lady. Even together, if she was amenable. That would soon put the smile back on Doyle’s face.
And with such thoughts, Bodie fell asleep.
* * * * *
Saturday 25th February
The February air was chill as Bodie leaned on Doyle's doorbell next morning. Too early by half, Bodie was convinced, but he had promised to bring round the makings of a good breakfast and so he was juggling a Spar bag packed with breakfast goodies, from bacon and eggs to a pint of milk, reasonably sure that Doyle wouldn't have had time to even pick up that necessity.
There was no answer. Bodie frowned and pressed again before giving up and retrieving his own set of keys from the depths of his pocket. After the shooting, the one that landed Doyle in hospital for six weeks, it had seemed a good idea to trade flat keys. Just in case. Bodie really hadn't appreciated the level of acrobatics he'd needed to let himself in that day and in the event of the next flat not having a balcony or a convenient fire escape, it would definitely make things easier next time.
Not that there was going to be a next time, of course.
He took the three flights of stairs two steps at a time, humming a little tune to himself as he did so. Doyle was probably still asleep. Rather strange for a man who was usually up with the lark, but not so surprising considering the amount of sleep he'd got in the last three weeks.
He fetched up at the front door, nothing looked unusual, and unlocked it, pushing it wide open.
"Hi honey! I'm home!" he carolled.
But there was no answer.
Bodie dumped the bag in the hallway and, the skin on the back of his neck prickling, he pulled his gun from its holster and walked down the narrow hallway, pushing open each door as he came to it. Bathroom on the right was empty, so was the living room and kitchen. The bedroom door was ajar, and Bodie pushed it open quietly with the muzzle of the gun, not daring to think of what he might see as the room was revealed.
It was empty. Doyle had obviously forgotten and left early.
Except there was something was off about that.
Bodie scanned the room more thoroughly, taking in the unmade bed, dirty laundry still in the basket and then made his way through the flat again, this time taking more note of each room than the lack of its usual resident. He picked up the bag in the hall automatically, closing the door with a definite slam as he did so and carried the groceries through to the kitchen where he dumped them on the side.
There was weeks old dust on the counter; two plates and two mugs still sat dirty in the sink. The same crockery they had shoved in the sink before haring off to HQ three weeks before.
Bodie crossed to the window in the living room, which looked over the quiet suburban street, and scanned the road up and down. Doyle's car was nowhere to be seen.
Doyle hadn't left early this morning to go running or anything else. He hadn't been home at all.
He sat down on the sofa, thinking furiously. If Doyle hadn't been home, then where had he gone? It had been late when he left Bodie's place last night, so it wasn't as if he'd have found a more inviting bed for the night.
Well, that's what he hoped.
Urgent call out? But why then hadn't Bodie been also called out? Doyle was the half of the partnership that had been run ragged over the last few weeks. Bodie was as fresh as a daisy by comparison.
A grass then? But what could be so important that it had sent Doyle out into the night when all he had professed to wanting nothing more than his own bed and six hours uninterrupted shut-eye.
Personal or job-related? Doyle had no family worth speaking of and any current bird of Doyle's wouldn't have a problem so big it warranted such an unsociable hour. Not that Bodie knew of any current love-interest. Unless it was both. Bodie scowled as he remembered both Ann Seaford and Kathy Mason. Really, Doyle's birds were always more trouble than they were worth.
The only problem with that was if some damsel in distress had shown up at Doyle's some time last night, why hadn't Doyle knocked him up as well?
Perhaps it was time to call it in.
He pulled out his R/T, working out what to say in order to minimise the risk of embarrassment to Doyle if it turned out he'd just decided to go for a long drive or something, when suddenly the door burst open, a canister arcing through the opening, releasing a pungent gas.
Coughing, Bodie immediately dropped behind the sofa, pulling out his gun as he did so, trying to get low enough that the gas did not affect him. But it was in vain, as his vision wavered, shadowy figures approached him.
"Take him," he heard one say as he slipped into unconsciousness. "He's wanted too."
* * * * *
Bodie awoke with a splitting headache blurring his vision. He briefly wondered what was going on before recent events came flooding back with a vengeance. Some kind of stun gas, he guessed, but who were his abductors? And 'abductors' was definitely the correct word as the headache diminished to merely unbearable levels, and Bodie was able to glance around him.
He was lying on a simple cot in a nicely anonymous cell; grey walls, no windows, the only illumination being from a single, bare, light bulb. A table and two chairs, securely bolted down of course, completed the furnishings. There was no clock, and his captors had divested Bodie of his own watch, so he had no way of knowing how long he'd been out. Along with his watch, all the contents of his pockets, gun, ID, his shoes and even his socks had been taken. Whoever these men were, they were certainly professionals.
He sighed, in the circumstances it was unlikely he was getting out of here any time soon. On the basis of the ease with which he had been snatched, he was even loath to attempt any precipitous escape.
Even brooding as he was, Bodie still didn't miss the click of a key in the lock and he steeled himself to meet his captors, sending up a fervent prayer to God, Cowley and Ray Doyle that he was to be rescued soon. It was with rather a shock, therefore, for Bodie to recognise the man who walked into the cell as the door swung open. He immediately stood, straightening his spine.
"I'm glad to see you, sir."
George Cowley pushed the door closed and fixed him with a gimlet stare. "Are you?" he enquired mildly.
The Cow looked very angry, Bodie could tell. He pitied the poor fool that had trespassed on the Cow's sacred territory. "So, am I sprung then?"
"Not quite," Cowley responded. "Where's Doyle?"
"No idea. He wasn't at his flat when I was grabbed. You've not found him yet, then?"
"You have no idea where he is?"
"No. I just told you," something was niggling at the back of Bodie's mind. "What's going on? Where am I?"
Cowley sighed heavily. "I'm surprised, Bodie, that you don't recognise your surroundings. You've spent enough time in here in the past. Though I suppose it looks very different from the other side of the table."
The first stirrings of icy fear trickled down Bodie's spine as he finally realised where he was. "Headquarters. But why?"
"You are here because we believe you have information relating to the disappearance of Raymond Doyle."
"So this isn't your average debrief then? What is this about?"
"We have evidence that Doyle has been selling on information to person or persons unknown."
Bodie stared at Cowley for a long moment, absolutely sure he'd misheard him. Flopping down into one of the hard metal chairs, he willed the other man to set him straight. "Ray's not... I mean... He can't be... I mean, he's completely straight. One good copper..."
"I know," Cowley said, taking the other chair, facing Bodie. "He obviously had us all fooled."
"But he can't be. I'd know, damn it." He stared at Cowley. "You said you had evidence. How convinced are you?"
"Very convinced, for what its worth. You recall the database we had installed a couple of years ago, of course. A routine audit threw up a few discrepancies. The most notable was that there had been a number of unauthorised accesses."
"Ray?"
Cowley nodded. "No doubt about it. Although he, somehow, was able to access some of the more secure files, his talents didn't extend to doing a decent job of covering it up. When the administrator ran the relevant reports, the patterns were very clear."
"The reports could be faked," said Bodie desperately.
"We are quite content that they aren't."
"Well then, perhaps someone else got hold of his password?"
"In which case Doyle is guilty of negligence. But no. We've checked. Doyle was in the building every time there was a breach."
"How bad is it?" Bodie's voice was no more than a whisper.
Cowley pursed his lips. "Of the files he accessed, discarding those which were legitimate, up to eighty percent of the related operations soured to some extent or other. Either through loss of leads or, unfortunately, loss of life. You remember Geoff Cutting, don't you?"
Bodie nodded warily. Doyle and he had attended the fellow agent's funeral only a month before.
"The gang were suspicious of him awfully quickly, don't you think? Almost as if someone had let on that an agent would be undercover."
"But no-one knew about the operation."
"You didn't. But I did, naturally. And so did Doyle. He knew about it three days before Cutting was sent out to his death. What was Doyle doing at Wormwood Scrubs that week?"
Bodie thought back, trying desperately to think of any concrete evidence against the stack Cowley seemed to have. "He was talking to a snout. He'd had a call that the guy might have some relevant information."
"And did he?"
"No. Ray said it'd been a complete waste of time."
"Who did he go to see?"
"Ray never said."
"Were you there when Doyle took the call?"
"No."
"So you don't, in fact, know whether Doyle took the call or not."
"He said he'd taken the call. That was good enough for me. At the time." Bodie rubbed at his forehead. "I still don't believe it. Ray is less likely to be a double agent than I am!"
"That I can believe, which is what I am trying to find out. The question is, are you?"
"You think... Ray and I... Oh Christ."
Cowley stared impassively back.
Bodie took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. This was not the time to start getting angry. "For what it's worth, Sir. I'm not."
"I appreciate your directness, Bodie," Cowley remarked, dryly, "However, in the circumstances, you will appreciate that I don't take that as read, quite yet."
"And do you have any 'evidence' against me?"
Cowley shrugged. "All evidence against you is circumstantial at best. The most compelling being your sexual relationship with Doyle."
"Relationship?" Bodie was thunderstruck as much at the choice of words as the fact that Cowley knew about their occasional off-duty activities. Finding his voice, he protested. "A few rough-and-tumble encounters hardly constitutes a 'relationship'."
“On the contrary. You’ve been having sex together on a regular basis for nearly three years. Marriages have been built on less."
Three years? Well, it had been a lot longer than that since their first time. Ray had managed to trip Bodie into bed within weeks of them being first paired. Not that a bed had actually been used, of course. But there had been a lot more times in the recent past than there had been to start with. There was just something comforting about bedding someone you were close to, knew all their secrets, all the little details about how to turn them on. No fuss or hassle. No forking out for plays or meals when all you wanted was just comfortable fun. And, in a life that was never comfortable and rarely fun, it was a little bit of something to cling on to.
"Give over, Sir. Neither Ray nor I are queer. It's just a bit of fun, that's all."
"And does Doyle feel the same?"
"Of course he does." Where did the old git get off suggesting that about him? Of course Bodie wouldn't make a fuss if Ray called a halt to their extra-curricular activities. There were plenty of willing bed-mates to be had around the city. Bodie had never forced such an issue yet and wasn't about to.
Cowley raised an eyebrow, but dropped the subject. Instead he went back to the most pressing matter. "So, you've definitely no idea where Doyle has gone?"
"No idea. He left mine a bit after eleven last night saying he needed to get some sleep. I arranged to meet him at his first thing this morning with breakfast as he didn't have anything in, what with the last stint undercover. I expected him to be at his flat, but when I got there the flat was empty. I went through the place and determined Ray hadn't been home last night. I was just about to call it in when the heavies arrived and I ended up here."
"And he gave no indication of going elsewhere?"
"No! He said he had things to do. I automatically assumed it was things like cleaning up. Doing the laundry, picking up some milk. That sort of thing."
"Yet you made sure you included milk in your groceries this morning."
Bodie frowned. Of course Ray had left late last night. "Figure of speech. Ray left after eleven last night; there wouldn't have been anywhere open."
Cowley merely pulled a small notebook out of his top pocket and noted something down, making quite a show of the act of retrieving and replacing the pad. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"Not at the moment. But if there's anything I can think of, I'll be sure to let you know." Bodie was pretty sure he'd kept the sarcasm out of his voice.
"You do that." And Cowley stood to take his leave.
"How long am I likely to remain here?"
"Until I say so, 3.7."
3.7? Well things were looking more positive. "Well, if I'm to be here for a bit, would it be possible to get a pen and some paper? So I can start noting down anything that comes to me?"
Cowley nodded. "I'll see what I can do," and with that he left Bodie alone with his thoughts.
* * * * *
It had taken several hours before Murphy had appeared to release Bodie; in a toneless voice explaining that Bodie was now on suspension and that he, Murphy, was to escort him back to his flat. Bodie didn't really register anything at first, turning the problem over and over in his head, and only noticed how uncharacteristically silent Murphy had been on the drive back when the car pulled up on his road.
"So what kind of trick do you think the Cow is pulling now?" Bodie asked, turning to his friend.
Murphy frowned. "You what?"
"Well, it's obvious, isn't it? Cutting Ray and me loose like this. Though I wish he'd not keep his cards so close to his chest. It gets really frustrating when you're second guessing yourself all the time. 'Is this the way the Cow is expecting me to jump' and all that. Can get someone killed that way."
"Bodie," Murphy interjected, "What are you talking about?"
"This whole 'double agent' malarkey. It's so obviously a ruse. Ray wouldn't do a thing like that. So it's therefore part of something bigger."
Murphy shook his head. "I don't know, Bodie. It seems very real to me."
"And you really think that Ray would sell out CI5? For money?" Bodie was incredulous.
"Barry Martin." Murphy remarked as a response. "Look, all I know is that when the Cow found out three days ago, I've never seen him so angry. Then he spent the next forty-eight hours trying, and failing, to disprove the allegations. He felt sure enough about them to bring you both in this morning."
"There's no way Ray would sell out. Period."
"Alfred Cole. Even Nigel Dawson," Murphy continued. "I know it's hard to believe that of someone you trusted, but if I were you, I'd start getting used to it. Doyle was your partner. If you don't do act the right way now, you're never going to get the faint smell of corruption off you. Keep your head down, wait for Cowley to come round. And, if it does turn out that there is a grander plan at work, well you'll find out soon enough."
"You really do believe that, don't you? Some bloody friend you are." Bodie couldn't believe his ears.
"I don't believe it, I don't not believe it. All I know is that if it's a set-up it's a bloody good one. I was there when Patrick pulled up the logs and he was so worried that he got me to go along with him to tell the Cow. And if it is a set-up, then you'd do better not to spread it around, if you see what I mean."
"But what's your gut feeling?" Bodie pressed.
"Given the right inducement, anyone will turn; you just need to find the handle. Money, power, threats against loved ones; they've all been used before. But I don't have to have a gut feeling about this. Doyle wasn't, isn't my partner. I don't have to be dragged in on all this. And you'd be a fool to blindly trust him. Either of them. If Doyle isn't a double agent, find the evidence to prove it."
"Bleeding fence-sitter.".
Murphy shrugged. "Better than jumping in with both feet and making the wrong call. Look, if I were you, I'd do as the Cow said. Stay down and out the way of any live investigations. He'll soon drag you back. God knows, we're always short-handed as it is."
Bodie nodded and got out of the car. "Ray's not, and never has been, a traitor, Murph," he warned.
"Watch your back," the other agent said in response and pulled off into the evening traffic.
Bodie made his way into his flat, not bothering to put any lights on and poured a large scotch by feel alone. Twenty-four hours ago Ray and he…
He took a large mouthful and felt it warm him down to his stomach. What was going on? If it was all a huge set-up, then why hadn't anything been said? Perhaps he was just waiting for the phone to ring. He glanced to the offending object, but it remained silent. Cowley would've have said something. He was the Controller of CI5. Somehow, if it was a big operation, he'd have got some kind of word to Bodie, not let him stay in the dark like this.
Unless he had only needed Ray. But that wouldn't make sense either. This sort of cloak and dagger game would only serve to rip his most successful team apart. It would be a hell of a sacrifice to make. There were easier ways of getting Ray out of the picture without resorting to widespread accusations of betrayal. For a start Cowley could've told Bodie about the plan.
Or was that just wishful thinking?
So what about the other side of the coin? Perhaps Ray really had done what Cowley had said. Scuppered investigations for goodness knows what reason. But that would only work if there was a reason behind it. And this was Ray. Why no message from him, some kind of explanation. Perhaps he was in trouble; perhaps he was trying to get information to him right now.
In a daze, Bodie went through the entire flat, searching for anything that could be construed as a message, ransacking every cupboard, turning over every drawer in hopes that the key to the entire mystery was sellotaped to the bottom of one. But there was nothing.
As there shouldn't be, Bodie conceded as he sat back down on his sofa, grabbing the entire bottle this time. His flat would have been professionally picked over this morning, after he had been taken in for questioning. As would Ray's. If had been any clue left in either flat, Cowley already had it.
And Ray would know that, would know that they would detain Bodie was well. One half of the mobile ghetto, it would be obvious that whatever one was suspected of, the other would have to work twice as hard to clear himself of, regardless of guilt. So Ray would be looking to get a message through in a different way. One of his snouts, perhaps. Assuming he could get near to one.
Bodie grabbed a pencil and paper and started to write down everyone Ray had ever referred to and where he might find them. It wasn't much, but it was a start. He would start in the morning, once he could ascertain what kind of watch the Cow had placed on him. And he was in no doubt that there would be surveillance. If Cowley still suspected him as well, then this little charade of 'you're a free man' would send him to join Ray. And if he didn't, then Cowley would still be interested in the moves Bodie would make in order to clear Ray's name.
He poured another, larger drink and settled back, trying to avoid the little voice at the back of his head asking 'what if Doyle had turned?' Murph had said that anyone could turn, you just needed to find the right button to push. Bodie knew that it could be true of himself, given the right circumstances. Of course they would have to be extreme. Couldn't see himself going against the Cow, unless of course, the Cow himself was proved to be corrupt.
Chance'd be a fine thing..
But what would be Doyle's button? And had it been pushed? It wouldn't be mere money. Ray might be legendarily tight-fisted, but it was just that. A legend. He didn't care about it, that's all. Sex? Nah, the Golly got enough of that with him didn't he?
Bodie sat up straight. Blackmail? Had someone found out about their occasional fucks and was using that to pressurise Ray into betrayal? Christ. Cowley said this had been going on two years. No wonder Ray'd been so jumpy around him and the subject of sex in the recent past. What with that hanging over him. At least two years. Did the bastards have photos…?
He hurled the now-empty scotch glass at the wall where it shattered. Hands balled into fists, he jumped up, ready for action. He would hunt them down and…
No, that wouldn't work. He collapsed back down on the sofa. Ray would've spoken to him. He wouldn’t have caved in like that. And anyway, what would the mysterious 'they' have done, if their attempt didn't work? He and Ray weren't important enough to splash it over the papers and it matter. They had no family worth speaking of and the Cow knew. Unofficially of course, but he did know. Dismissal wouldn't be half as bad as the bawling out they would get for not noticing the surveillance. And neither were worth two years of passing information on, souring operations, getting agents killed…
Having deprived himself of the glass, Bodie took a pull straight from the bottle. No, it wasn't blackmail, or at least not of that sort. Perhaps they'd promised Ray a really rare motorcycle. He chuckled slightly then grimaced. That really wasn't funny. The whole point of blackmail was that the very act trapped you. The original price would be very different to the amount a victim could end up paying, just to cover up the subsequent betrayals. A very nasty business, all round.
It was getting late now, but Bodie didn't want to move. He had nothing to get up for in the morning, other than to pound the streets, something he'd never liked doing. And he was reluctant to go to bed. The memories surrounding that simple piece of furniture were confusing and bittersweet. He was already missing the bugger and it'd been barely twenty-four hours since he last set eyes on him. Damn Ray for vanishing like that and damn Cowley for detaining him without cause. And damn himself for feeling like this. Feeling betrayed and bereft, he curled up on the sofa and slept.
* * * * *
Monday 12th March
Armed with the list of Doyle's informers and with little else to do, Bodie spent the next week or so trawling through the seedier side of London. As time went on without any contact, either from CI5 or Doyle, it became more likely that Doyle had been turned and had betrayed them. All Bodie could do was keep his head down and try to gather as much information as he could.
Fairly unsurprisingly, he had little luck in this second task; the few informers he did track down knew nothing. And several seemed to be untraceable. Doyle's little irregular army were a very different bunch to his own; being mostly small-time crooks and opportunists.
After another fruitless day searching the streets, Bodie finally decided to take the weight off his feet and relax a little. Finding himself in the depths of Whitechapel, he spied an old pub sign and made his way over to the rundown inn. He pushed the door open and made his way over to the bar.
The inside of the pub was as grubby and old as the outside, the air was thick with stale tobacco smoke, staining the tiling and ceiling dark brown. A bored barmaid, looking about as rundown as the pub itself, came over and took Bodie's order, pulling an insipid pint into a grubby glass before retiring to the other end of the bar and her newspaper.
Bodie propped himself up at the bar and took a sip of the uninspiring liquid, grimacing at the taste before glancing round the pub. It was quiet for a Saturday, but the pub was well off the beaten track. No doubt its regular punters were still at the betting shop or minding their market stalls, if any of them were actually gainfully employed around here.
There were one or two men sat at the haphazardly placed tables. A thin, scruffy man sat at a table just to Bodie's left nursing a whisky and staring into space. And a portly gentleman was sat at the back, florid face stuck in the sporting section of one of the local rags. As Bodie looked at him the man waved a hand to the barmaid and, with a cheerful "Liza, another of the same," received a pint of the same weak brew Bodie had ordered.
As Bodie glanced around, he spotted a man walking back through the door from the toilets. The man had his head down, staring at something in his hands, but as he finally looked up, Bodie immediately recognised him as one of the snouts on his list, Martin Reese.
Unfortunately the man seemed also to recognise Bodie and immediately turned tail, pocketing the object and vanishing back the way he had come. Bodie immediately gave chase, almost knocking down the barmaid in his hurry. He left her startled "Oy!" behind as he turned through the doorway and down the short, vile-smelling corridor and burst through the fire exit at the back.
The weak sunlight was still strong to his eyes as he adjusted from the gloom of the public bar. He glanced around and spotted Martin as he disappeared around the corner and he immediately gave chase.
Martin led him a merry chase through the back ways and alleyways of Whitechapel, but the gutter-rat was no match for the highly-trained CI5 agent on his heels. Bodie finally caught him in an alleyway between two boarded up shops, grabbing at his shirt collar and twisting his arm up his back, pinning him to the alleyway wall.
"Now then, Martin, is that any way to greet a mate?"
"Who the bloody 'ell are you?" Martin complained, voice slightly muffled by the wall.
"Oh, you know me, Martin. I sure as hell know you."
"'Ow can I tell 'oo you are if I can't see your face, eh? Let up, Mister."
Bodie eased off slightly, letting go of the man's wrist, but not letting go of the shirt collar. Martin turned round and squinted at Bodie. Then a burst of minted halitosis assailed his nostrils as the man chuckled. "Copper. Yeah, I do know you. Friends with that bugger Doyle, right?"
"That's right. And I'm looking for him."
"Ah, now there's a man who's done alright for 'isself. But seriously copper, I don't know nothin'." Martin started to struggle in Bodie's grip and so Bodie leaned his weight forward, effectively pinning the smaller man against the wall.
"Of course, I could just nick you. I'm quite sure I'd find something usefully incriminating in your pockets. Coke, may be? Even some H, perhaps?" Bodie started to dip his free hand into Martin's pocket. "But I'm sure you wouldn't like that. Not our type of cell, where a man's solicitor might take days or weeks to find him? No?" His hand stilled as Martin shook his head, vehemently. "Okay, now let us start again. What do you mean 'done all right?' Have you seen him recently?"
Martin slumped slightly in defeat. "Nah, not me. Sir Stephen wouldn't 'ave the likes of me 'anging round 'is place."
Bodie pushed him harder into the wall. "But you know something."
"Not exactly. Tiny Johnson is 'oo's bin seein' Mr. Doyle. Tiny's been doing a spot of chauffeuring for 'is Lordship. Ferryin' this 'n' that all over the place. 'twas 'im that tole me of Mr. Doyle's change of career. Rather surprised both me and Tiny, that did. What with Mr. Doyle being such a conscientious copper."
"What was Doyle doing?"
"Tiny din't say. But 'e did say that Mr. Doyle was well in there. So 'im and Sir Stephen must be good pals, eh?"
"And where is he?"
"Where 'e is now, I don't rightly know, not being there with him." Martin chuckled, but hurriedly carried on as Bodie pushed again. "Tiny saw 'im down at Sir Stephen's place in Surrey. Caxted 'All. Beautiful 'ouse it is. Not that I've 'ad a chance to have a look see, of course. Parts of the interior are rumoured to have been designed by Owen Jones hisself. Fancy that, eh?"
"Yeah, yeah. Caxted Hall, you say? Thank you."
Bodie let go and Martin immediately scarpered off, vanishing back into the woodwork from whence he came. Bodie himself walked slowly out of the alley, hands in his pockets, thinking furiously. So Doyle could, finally, be run to ground. He was torn between letting Cowley know. After all, if Doyle was rotten then he would definitely need back-up. But, on the other hand, if Doyle was innocent, then setting the dogs on him now would be the last thing he needed. Shaking his head, he turned to wander back to the tube and home, when a hand on his shoulder arrested his progress.
Whipping immediately around, Bodie too late recognised the man standing behind him; pulling his punch as much as he was able, Bodie still managed to knock him to the ground. Immediately he put out a hand to pull the other man back to his feet and started to curse. "You stupid bugger, Davids. I could've killed you if I'd been a split second slower in recognising your weasely face."
"I thing you broke my nobe," Davids complained, prodding at the injured appendage cautiously and wincing.
"Here," Bodie dragged out an almost-clean handkerchief to staunch the slow flow of blood. "I thought you were meant to be merely observing me from a distance. Why the tough act?"
"Didb't realise you'd seeb me. Ouch. Anyway, The Cow wabts to see you prondo."
"He's at the office?"
"No, aroubd the corber, waitig for you."
Damn, Bodie thought as he left the unfortunate Davids behind and jogged around the corner to spot the blue Granada that Cowley currently favoured.
"3.7," Cowley snapped as Bodie peered in the window. "Get in please, no lollygagging around."
"Where are we off to?" Bodie asked as he settled in the front passenger seat and turned round to address his boss. Immediately the dour-faced Stanley, Cowley's driver for the week, got the car underway.
"I'm off to Surrey. Thanks to you, I'm now running late. I'll drop you off as soon as you've finished so you better be quick if you don't want to walk all the way back. Now, what the hell were you doing? May I remind you, you're still on suspension? You were told to stay well away from any live investigations."
"Can't a man go to a pub in peace?" Bodie asked innocently.
"Don't play with me, boy. It's fairly obvious you've been tracking down any and all of Doyle's informants you can find. Source, please."
Bodie grumbled, but drew the list from his pocket and handed it over to Cowley.
Cowley scanned through it, noting each of the names. "Did you get anywhere with it?"
"Yeah, some. Martin Reese, a rather greasy individual, forwarded a rumour that Doyle was hiding out at Sir Stephen Somebody's place. Caxted Hall, I think."
"Caxted Hall?" Cowley appeared visibly surprised. "How reliable is that?"
Bodie shrugged. "I really couldn't say, to be honest. Reese appeared to be on the level, but it wasn't first hand. Why?"
"Caxted Hall is where we were heading off to now. Trouble has been brewing down there for a couple of weeks. We believe a big shipment of armaments was delivered there two days ago."
"Reese said that Tiny Johnson had been 'chauffeuring' all around the place. Sounds like that's what he's been chauffeuring."
"Indeed. You better step on it, Stanley. We would do well to get down there as soon as possible."
As Stanley eased the car across the river, Bodie felt it safe to question Cowley a little more. "So who is this Sir Stephen then?"
"Sir Stephen Chase. Once owner of one the country's largest military hardware manufacturers. He's been gradually moving into the more modern methods of killing people - chemical and biological warfare. All hush, hush of course. Though our own Government has been quite the funder of his activities, one way or another. Interestingly, he's also an international jet-setting glamour photographer."
"Now that's a little bit different to his day job," Bodie drawled.
"Quite. But it's a good cover for what we suspect is also a little bit of illegal gun-running."
Bodie chuckled. "I wonder which side of the business Doyle is on. I could just see him puckering up for the cameras."
Cowley just glared at Bodie and Bodie, wisely, shut up.
* * * * *
By the time Bodie, Cowley and Stanley had made it to Caxted Hall, that remote corner of Merrie England more resembled a war zone. A helicopter was parked on the lawns behind the house and CI5 agents had it under fire. Even as Bodie spilled out of the car, immediately running round the other side to take cover, the rotors on the helicopter started up, flattening the grass beneath it with the displacement of the air. A cry, several yards ahead and to the right, had Bodie take off immediately towards it, running in a low crouch to avoid being hit by one of the bullets whizzing between the two sides. Bodie swore he could hear Cowley above the noise of the battle, bellowing for him to not be a fool and come back, but whomever it was up there who had cried out sounded as if he needed the back-up and only Bodie was near enough and good enough to provide it.
Bodie drew level with the small dug-out and peered in; it was Murphy. A stray bullet had clipped his shoulder and he was having problems returning fire. Bodie immediately shoved him over, taking possession of the rifle and, when Murphy made to argue, hissed "take care of yourself," before looking over the top of the inadequate cover and assessing the situation. Only two of the opposition were still returning fire, pinned down and unable to reach the cover of the helicopter. Bodie focussed on them, fixing their position before covering it with a hail of fire. The range was long and Bodie despaired of actually hitting them at this distance, but he eventually managed it, bringing both of them down, even as the helicopter started to rise from the ground.
Bodie immediately fixed on its position, joining the other agents in returning fire at the two shooting from the sides of the chopper. It was tight, the range was even longer this time, but as the helicopter rose higher in the air and started to swing round, a lucky shot got through, appearing to pierce the fuel tank beneath and causing the craft to immediately burst into a fireball, raining fiery debris on the ground below.
Bodie cried out, partly in surprise and partly in a heady rush of adrenalin. "My God! Look at that! That's the sort of thing that only ever happens in films!"
Then as a kind of peace started to descend on the ravaged estate, he belatedly remembered Murphy.
Murphy was still conscious, but was sporting a pinched, white look that Bodie could sympathise with. "How is it?"
"Hurts," grunted Murphy, pressing down hard on the freely-bleeding wound. "Feels like the bullet is still in there, but I don't think anything is broken."
"Well, come on then, let's see if we can get you patched up and see what the Cow has to say."
Cowley obviously had plenty to say as Bodie and Murphy approached, Bodie half-supporting Murphy in his pain. He was lecturing a hapless Anson on the meaning of "discreet" as they drew within earshot and Cowley immediately turned on Bodie.
"I told you to stay out of this, Bodie."
"Murphy was taken out of action," Bodie started to argue. "Someone had to do something."
"That's as may be, but I distinctly remember warning you not to get involved in any live investigations while you were on suspension." He cast an eye over the injured agent. "Och, go get that seen to, 6.2, before you bleed all over the car."
Murph nodded and took himself off to the ambulance that had just arrived on the scene.
"Apart from Grayson, we think; that is the only other injury. On our side."
"What happened to Grayson, sir?"
"Caught whilst on surveillance. We think he was executed."
"Damn."
"He was able to give some information before he was captured, however. He positively identified two of the men. One was Sir Stephen."
"And the other?" Bodie enquired, though the sinking sensation in his gut was proof enough he already knew what Cowley was going to say.
Cowley looked beyond Bodie, out towards the clean-up which was just starting. "It was Doyle."
* * * * *
Tuesday 13th March
Next morning, Bodie arrived early at Headquarters, as summoned by Cowley. Cowley wasted no time, sliding Bodie's ID across the table.
"In the circumstances, you're re-instated as of now."
"You've concluded your investigation?"
"Not quite, but I'm content. And I need all my men."
Bodie nodded. The idea of still being under suspicion for treason was unpalatable, but at least he would be working.
"Is there any more news on the incident yesterday, sir?"
"Incident? Damn disaster, that's what it was. The general public don't generally appreciate their stately homes being blown up. Especially when it's due to some fool mistake like yesterday. And I don't either."
"Mistake?"
"Grayson getting in the way. The man should've stayed out of sight better."
"Well, he paid a heavy price for it."
"Aye, that is true." Cowley sighed and rubbed his face. Then he reached into one of his drawers and pulled out a bottle and two glasses. He added a generous measure of whisky to each glass before putting the bottle away and handing one of the glasses to Bodie.
Bodie accepted the glass and took a generous sip of the liquor before speaking. "And it's all a bit funny, isn't it? We'd heard about the shipment two days ago, but we'd not heard anything about them moving out. But they were definitely primed and ready to do so. Even if Grayson hadn't been spotted, I doubt that would've stopped the fire fight yesterday."
Cowley nodded ruefully. "I know, Bodie."
"How did we find out about the shipment?"
"Special Branch. And there's no point us chasing it there. It will only turn out to be some constable with a rumour from an informant, as usual."
"An informant like Martin Reese, perhaps?"
"Aye, good thinking. You better check that out. See who else he might have told."
Bodie nodded. "I'll get on to it. What about Tiny Johnson?"
"Killed in the crossfire, unfortunately. So there's no way of tracing that back. Martin Reese is our best bet, if you can find him."
"You think he might disappear?"
"It's a possibility, at least. Everyone else seems to be a dead end. We can't rule it out."
"Everyone else, meaning Doyle."
Cowley drained his glass. "And Stephen Chase. The three in the helicopter have been identified as Sir Stephen, his pilot Tim Eames and Ray Doyle. It was rigged to explode on take off."
"So, not such a lucky shot then?"
"No. Whoever Doyle's new masters were, they obviously weren’t taking any chances. We've positive IDs on the first two, but Doyle was sitting on the device when it went off. There's precious little left to identify."
"So the body might not be his?"
"Evidence says it is. Doyle's gun and R/T were recovered at the scene. And we're sure the gun was used to kill Grayson."
"Damn." Bodie clenched his fists. "Ray didn't want Grayson to ID him."
"Yes. I'm sorry, Bodie."
Bodie shrugged. The smoke from the exploding helicopter still tasted of bitter defeat at the back of his throat. "The bastard had it coming, didn't he? And it's a beautiful piece of irony, the betrayer betrayed. I just hope it was worth it."
* * * * *
Thursday 31st May
Liverpool hadn’t really changed much in the two decades since Bodie had last seen the place, it was still as dreary and run-down as he remembered. Especially here, round the docks. Even more so, perhaps. The pub he had finally fetched up in, avoiding wasting too much shoe leather and the ever-present Northern drizzle, certainly had seen better days. Come to think of it, the scotch in his hand and the rather stale cheese rolls he had charmed out of the barmaid earlier, they'd obviously seen better days as well.
He didn’t even really know why he was here, except that while Cowley’s ‘friend’ had him cooling his heels, there really wasn't anything else to do.
Damned Cowley. In the ten weeks since he'd been back on the squad, and after failing to run Martin Reese to ground, Bodie had mostly been on solo milk runs - 'guard this minor diplomat here', 'pick up this package there' - and it was wearing thin. It wasn't even as if Bodie resented the fact the Cow couldn't trust him with anything more. That was a given, in the circumstances. But without the satisfaction of a hard-won chase and far too much time in which to avoid thinking, Bodie was fairly sure he was even closer to insane than usual.
It was evident that the rest of the squad thought the same. While tentative 'welcome backs' had been extended when The Cow had seen fit to grant back Bodie's armoury and ID, that hand of friendship had been very tentative indeed once the other agents had realised what kind of black mood they were most likely to encounter.
Last week's victim had been the vending machine in the tiny break room. In its failure to come up with either his money back or the brown liquid purporting to be tea, the machine had lost most of its cheery plastic front. And it was highly unlikely that the dispensing nozzle would ever be the same again.
No, Bodie really couldn't blame them for steering clear. Even if it did mean that he spent more time in his own company. But that wasn't so bad, to be honest. Now that he was on his own there was no negotiation for every bit of pleasure. He didn't have to go running if the weather was bad, he could stay in and watch the gogglebox. Or go out and pick up one of the thousands of willing and single birds that inhabited the city. Not that there had been many of those, recently. But there had been a lot of running.
Bodie frowned. Well, there was always a period of transition when work patterns changed. He would just have to get re-used to working alone - no inconvenient interruptions when writing reports, no distracting buzz-saw snore on long obbos, no regaling of tall tales in order to keep each other awake…
Bodie snapped off that thought. It would just be like the Cow to saddle him with another no-hoper partner just as the idea of none was growing on him.
He swigged up the whisky and ordered another. No reason not to get drunk at the moment. General Tarporley had made it clear that no answer would be forthcoming today and therefore Bodie better pay for another night at the dreadful bed and breakfast and find something else to do as he couldn't have layabouts generally mucking up the place.
Bloody Cowley, he thought again. Why he even needed an agent up here, picking up some missive from such a pompous ass like the General, Bodie couldn't think. Unless the Cow was trying to drive Bodie to either suicide or murder. That'd prove a point then, wouldn’t it? If Bodie turned out like…
Well, turned out like Bodie, really. He'd done enough killing for the scantiest of reasons back in Africa. Not that it seemed so at the time.
The place was starting to fill up now, Dock workers just off shift coming in to waste their meagre pay packets before staggering home to beat up their wives and kids. Same old, same old. It never changed really. Bodie merited barely a glance, he knew how to fit in places like this.
But that man over there, with his back to him at the other end of the bar, obviously didn't. His challengers were almost clones of each other, tall, heavy and muscled. At just above average height and thin, the man was instantly set apart from them in his almost emaciated appearance.
I wonder what he was banged up for? Bodie thought dispassionately as he took in the severe crew-cut of the man's bleached-blond hair. No tattoos were visible on the man's hairless forearms as he gesticulated at the other men, but the pale blue shirt he was wearing, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, would hide a multitude of sins.
Whatever it was, I doubt it was for GBH, Bodie inwardly chuckled, glad for a diversion, but also scoping out his own quick exit should the argument get physical. It wouldn't do his current standing with Cowley any good to be caught up in a pub brawl when he was supposed to be keeping his head down here.
The argument was getting more heated. From the little Bodie could hear, it seemed that the man with the blond crew-cut was being derided for drinking in a docker's pub while under suspicion of being a poof. Normal bully-boy tactics from the three brick-shithouse-built dock workers spoiling for a fight and not having the wit to pick on someone a little closer to their own weight-class if they wanted the bout to last more than two seconds.
Then Blondy shifted his weight, back muscles rippling under his shirt and Bodie rose without thinking, moving to the right and behind, not-so-coincidentally blocking off the nearest entrance to the bar in his silent approach.
Doyle's really going to need some help here…
The thought flickered in his mind unbidden and Bodie realised he'd moved to back up his partner, as he would've done any day of the week, before. But his partner was gone. Had betrayed the squad, had betrayed him, and had paid the ultimate price.
Grief stabbed through him, shocking in its intensity. Bodie turned, stumbling blindly through the door to his right and out into the late afternoon sunshine. An alleyway to the left afforded at least a small degree of privacy and he ran towards it, before falling to his knees, throwing up his meagre lunch. The whisky burned at his throat and he retched again, heaving in great gulps of air as he shook uncontrollably.
Finally after some time, the heaving and shaking ceased and Bodie sat back on his haunches, wiping his face and mouth with a dodgy service station serviette he had found stuffed in one pocket.
Cowley was right not to trust him, but not for any suspicion of selling-out. He'd lost his edge, his nerves gone like Macklin. He was no good to the squad like this, falling apart at the vaguest hint of a physical altercation.
It was time he had done with it. Take up something a little less nerve-wracking. Something where you didn't have to rely on a partner to watch your back, something that just him and himself alone. Other people were a liability, he'd learned that lesson long ago, and it was his own failure that he had let Doyle in as far as he had. No. Never let anyone close enough to twist that knife. That was the true secret of survival.
Bodie stood, braced against the brick wall for a moment to regain his balance. First things first; get the old duffer to cough up the promised documents. Then head back to London to hand them over, along with his own resignation letter.
Purpose set at last, he strode out of the alley and down the road.
Continue to Part Two