Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

 

 

Doyle & Bodie – Easy Prey

I do not own these characters nor claim any right to do so.
This fanfic is purely for entertainment purposes only

 

Chapter 1

 

The man sat waiting in the prison visiting room was old before his time. Greyed, wasted and hunched from his incarceration, but his eyes still burned bitterly for his predicament and those he thought responsible for it.

A shadow moved into the harsh fluorescent lighting and uninterested, he looked up. He didn’t recognise the man in the smart suit who sat down on the other side of the small table, but his visitor smiled pleasantly enough at him.

“Heard you still carry some clout in here,” the man began, opening a packet of cigarettes and offering them politely.

The cigarettes were ignored. “Who are you?”

The man in the suit left the open packet on the table and leaned back. “I represent someone who has a common interest with you. A grudge shall we say.”

The silence stretched, the burning eyes regarded him steadily, nine years of form etched deep in their depths. The prisoner laughed, abruptly, humourlessly, and took a cigarette from the packet. “Is that right?”

“Yes that’s right.” The suited man produced a lighter and courteously lit the cigarette. “He is of the opinion that you may be interested in a little deal.”

“In here?” the prisoner scoffed openly and puffed the cigarette to life. “What sort of deal does he think I can do from in here?”

“Oh you’d be surprised.” The suit leaned forward again and closed the cigarette packet, pushing it towards the older man garbed in Her Majesty’s prison uniform. “And it’s easy enough. We get a man put away, you finish him off. Slowly. That’s all.”

Tired eyes gazed shrewdly at the visitor through the lazy spiral of blue smoke. “You want me to waste someone once he’s put in here? Risk my privileges? Why should I?”

“Why shouldn’t you?” the visitor countered. “I’m sure that you will have no objection, despite your privileges.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself, outside?”

The visitor hesitated. “My client does not want a suspicion of murder to taint his reputation, whether false or not. You on the other hand are already serving life for the act.”

The cigarette flared as he sucked in deeply, taking his time. “What makes you sure he’ll get sent down. And to here?”

“We have ways and means. He’ll end up here and then it’s up to you.” Intense satisfaction briefly appeared on that bland face. “Easy prey.”

The prisoner was curious now. “Who is it?”

The visitor smiled and there was not a shred of warmth in that smile. “Raymond Doyle. Ex Detective-Constable, now CI5.”

Bill Haydon’s eyes lit up and for the first time in years, his grey face showed a spark of animated life. He leaned forward eagerly. “When?”

 

*********************

 

The girl stood alone in the pub nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot. Waiting. Hoping. Dreading.

An attractive girl, with long dark hair, matching dark eyes, and the sort of figure that most men turned to look at, she waited anxiously, needing only one man to notice her, a man she hadn’t yet met, although she knew what he looked like. She’d been shown a set of photographs and had been told that he frequented this pub on a regular basis. Her job was simple, they said, and she had everything she needed in her shoulder bag to carry it out, but she was still nervous, unwilling to go through with it. But not going through with it was worse. Much worse. You didn’t cross John, not unless you were tired of living. She’d found that out far too late. Fear of him, plus the threat to withhold her stuff if she didn’t comply, impelled her to carry out his distasteful orders and she had long ago ceased to fight him. And so here she waited, waited for the man in the photograph to come through the doors.

She’d fretted that he wouldn’t find her attractive, wouldn’t want to sleep with her, but her fears were allayed by both John and the current clientele of the pub, the former having already used her body, and the latter blatantly wanting the same. And he was a ladies man, she’d been assured over and over, he’d find her beddable. If he ever showed up, she thought to herself bitterly. This was her third night waiting for him, her third night of being hit on by men, being indecently propositioned and evading their drunken pawing, and yet again, he hadn’t showed.

She drained her drink in one swallow and fidgeted some more, ignoring the tipsy man who was trying to catch her eye on the other side of the bar. She hoisted her bag again, her grip on it tight, fretfully conscious of the contents and was about to give up when he walked in the door. Panic caused her to freeze up, nerves jangling like a bell.

She recognised him instantly, he was just as handsome as the photo had shown her, just as powerful across the shoulders, his physique fit and toned. Smooth, dark haired, his lean face both predatory and boyish, dark eyes expertly sweeping the room and fixing on her, even though he had a woman on his arm. Her face betrayed dismay. She hadn’t counted on that. Neither, obviously, had John. Looking at him though, it was hardly surprising and John certainly should have foreseen it. She didn’t think for a minute that he would ever be without female company, unless it was by choice.

He gave her a once over, she guessed more from sheer force of habit rather than any sort of desire, as he guided his companion to a seat next to her at the bar. He was tastefully and expensively dressed, clothes fitting his impressive body like a glove and he crossed the room with innate power and confidence. Like a cat, she thought a bit dazedly. Like a big cat, a panther. He exuded sex appeal like a fragrance and the female in her responded helplessly. She gripped her bag again, knowing what was in there and that this man was the key to using it.

She waited until he ordered a beer for himself, a gin and tonic for the blonde woman with him, then rattled the ice suggestively in her glass. John had said she had to do it, and however reluctantly, she had to obey him. He looked across and smiled at her, and she saw that his eyes were a dark blue, rather than black as she’d originally thought. She had a sudden wish that he was by himself, that she didn’t know John, that none of this was anything other than a chance meeting in a pub.

“Waiting for someone?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “Been stood up.” She included the other woman with her smile. No point in making enemies. “But it’s OK, I’ve just got in from an overnight from New York, so I suppose I should make it an early night.”

He grinned at her boyishly, eyes lighting up. “You’re an air hostess? What a coincidence. This lovely lady is an air hostess as well.”

She smiled at the other woman. “It does interfere with one’s social life, don’t you think?”

To her relief, the blonde smiled back at her, seeing a kindred soul. “You can say that again.”

He asked her what she wanted to drink and she relaxed marginally. She was in.

 

***********************

 

Raymond Doyle had a headache and a half. Of course being walloped by a rebounding pulley and chain was bound to cause one. Which is exactly what had happened earlier that afternoon when he and Bodie had been sent to bring in Simmons. And he’d had little chance to avoid the crazily swinging chain and block since Simmons was crazily swinging a knife at the same time and Cowley had said he’d wanted him alive. He put a hand up to the bruise on his temple and winced as he unlocked the door to his flat and switched off the alarms.

The factory floor had been coated in black rubber dust, the fight with Simmons had them both rolling in it, and all Doyle wanted now was a long hot shower, a dozen aspirin and an early night. He starting stripping off the minute he got to the top of the stairs, carelessly discarding items of clothing as he entered his bedroom, inordinately glad he’d managed to talk the doctor out of admitting him overnight to hospital. Mind you, he’d still been made to wait for several hours to ensure there wasn’t any concussion and Bodie had sensibly taken advantage of the delay to get back to headquarters and lodge the report while he’d been stuck there.

He tossed his gun and holster haphazardly on the bedside table and stepped out of his filthy jeans.

Five minutes later he was standing under the shower, head down, both hands braced flat against the tiled wall as the hot water sluiced over his aching shoulder muscles and trying not to groan with the pure pleasure of it. He tilted his head under and let the jets of water blast the rubber dust from his hair. If he could go to sleep right there, in the blissful warmth of the water, he would, he thought drowsily, before reaching lethargically for the soap.

It wasn’t until the hot water ran out, and he finally turned off the taps, that he heard it. A noise from downstairs. His dripping head came up, eyes instantly alert and he flicked his gaze through the open door towards the bedroom, where his Walther P38 lay on the bedside table. Pushing open the glass panel of the shower cubicle, he reached quickly for a towel, sheathing it around his lean hips as he edged towards the bedroom. Another noise, the muted sound of glass tinkling and a low murmur. Doyle frowned and pressed himself against the wall, peering around the corner. Nothing. He scampered over to his gun, pulled it from the holster, feeling the butt snug against his right palm. Taking a risk, he quickly hauled on the dirty jeans he’d just discarded and then inched towards the staircase to the lower level, stopping just short to peer over the edge. Nothing, the noise had moved to the kitchen. Doyle released the safety catch, held his gun up and padded silently down the stairs. He was half way down when the intruders walked out of the kitchen. Doyle tensed, swung the handgun up, bracing himself to pull the trigger… then relaxed, letting his head fall back against the wall, looking heavenward. Bodie.

He’d helped himself to a drink, looking very relaxed and easy. And smug as two very attractive women followed him into the living room. Doyle exhaled, adrenaline draining, headache returning along with irritation. He hurriedly shoved the gun into the back waistband of his jeans, hiding it from view.

Bodie looked up and saw him. He raised a brow along with his glass. “Ah here he is now. Ray, come on down.”

 

 

 

She followed Bodie’s gaze and saw him. And involuntarily sucked in her breath. His photo hadn’t done him justice at all, she thought as she took him in. He was gorgeous, still wet from his shower, and if she had to play whore for John, she couldn’t have picked a better specimen. She watched him admiringly as he hesitated, glancing back up the stairs, as though to go back up and finish dressing, before changing his mind. Barefoot, he padded lightly down the remaining steps, clad only in a rather dirty pair of faded, scruffy jeans and a silver necklace. His chest and broad shoulders were sprinkled liberally with droplets of water from his sodden dark hair. She looked at his face with unconcealed interest, noting his wide spaced light eyes, his full lips and that damaged right cheekbone, somehow less noticeable in reality, than it had appeared in the black and white photograph she had been shown. It was an open, easy to read face, currently displaying both irritation and resignation, and those expressive eyes missed nothing as he passed, curiously checking her out. She dropped her gaze quickly, not wanting him to read her so easily, and instead found herself enjoying the sight of his hard, lithe and decidedly wet body as he turned the last corner of the staircase.

 

 

 

Doyle faced his partner and shoved his dripping hair out of his eyes. Bodie’s lips twitched in amusement. Doyle with wet hair never looked like Doyle, and it always amazed him how long his partner's hair actually was when waterlogged almost straight. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

Doyle made a rude noise in the back of his throat, “Yeah, well you’d know.”

Bodie didn’t miss the acidic tone and recklessly decided to provoke his partner further. He looked him up and down; smirking at his state of undress and his sharp eyes hadn’t missed the semi auto tucked into the small of his partner’s back. His grin widened wickedly and he dropped his voice lower. “Well you certainly know how to make an entrance, it’s not loaded with blanks, I trust?”

Doyle’s eyes were steady on him and Bodie saw the blue sparks of sudden temper. Delighted that his baiting had scored, he turned and indicated one of the girls. “That’s Donna.” He tilted his head to the other, “And that’s Katie. Airline stewardesses in from an overnight.”

“Yeah?” Doyle nodded at both girls and eyed his partner sternly before taking his arm and steering him very firmly into the kitchen. “Don’t you know how to knock?”

Bodie looked injured, “I did. Right before I used the lockpicks.” He saw irritation flash across his partner's face. “Don’t worry, they didn’t see a thing, I know how to be sneaky, they think I had a key. Should have one anyway, save all this bother.”

“Could have given me some warning,” Doyle grumbled.

“Your phone rang out,” Bodie protested, “but when I called the hospital, they said you’d already left. Come on, get your glad rags on, we’re off to paint the town red.”

Doyle shook his head and immediately regretted it. He put one hand up and rubbed at the bruise on his temple. “No, not me, mate. My head's fit to burst.” He turned to a cupboard and reached in, groping for the packet of aspirin he knew to be in there. “The only place I’m going is bed.”

Bodie helpfully took a glass from the draining rack and filled it with water as Doyle dumped three tablets from the box into his hand. He leaned in to his partner conspiratorially, “I think that’s what Katie had in mind. Seemed rather eager to come over here and meet you actually.”

Doyle took the proffered glass, threw the tablets into his mouth and took a large gulp of water, swallowing them down. “Not tonight, Bodie, appreciate it, but no.”

Bodie searched his partner's face thoroughly, carefully, but saw only weariness and a rather large bump on his forehead. He shrugged. “Well if you insist, but maybe…..” He was interrupted by the appearance of both girls, wine glasses in their hands. Doyle turned his back to the counter, hiding his handgun. Bodie moved across to Donna and put his arm around her. “Slight change of plans. Ray’s not up to coming out with us. He had a hard day at the office, a minor mishap with a filing cabinet.”

Both women pouted at this but Doyle just shrugged, tired and wanting them out of his flat.

 

 

 

Things weren’t going to plan and anxiously, she tensed up. No one had expected him not to co-operate. She looked at him, at the water droplets decorating his shoulders, his hard agile body - she could smell that clean soap smell on his skin, and had a sudden, fierce yearning for him that left her aching deep in her belly. Surely he hadn’t suspected anything, she barely needed to act at all such was her attraction. Yet he was resisting. All John’s careful plans... God... she had to somehow make him want her. She smiled alluringly at him, ignoring his unconcealed lack of interest and stepped closer, half lifting a hand, wanting to touch him, all that intoxicating wet skin. She licked her lips, “A shame, I was looking forward to it.”

He said coldly, “Another time perhaps.”

It was like a dash of cold water thrown in her face and, flustered, she moved away back to the living room, arousal warring with panic. What was she to do? John would be so displeased. She rubbed her arms as though cold, recognising the onset of the craving, the need for a man, the need for her fix, entwined together, burning through her nerve endings. John would withhold her fix. He would blame her. It wasn’t her fault; she would have willingly bedded either of them, both of them, even without his threats. Panicked she checked her watch. He would be waiting for the call. She looked at the whisky bottle, where Bodie had left it and the clean glass on the tray. Maybe she could hurry it up, just skip the evening out and the sex afterwards, much as she wouldn’t have minded either. She walked deliberately towards the whisky and her trembling fingers unzipped her bag.

 

 

 

Doyle ran a hand through the saturated strands of his hair, feeling suddenly guilty. It wasn’t her fault, she was attractive enough, and any other time he’d have been interested. He was aware of Bodie watching him, alert to his mood. Doyle readied himself for an argument with his partner, but Katie suddenly reappeared, smiling again.

She held out a glass. “Here, you look like you could use a drink.”

“Cheers.” Doyle responded automatically taking the glass and placing it on the bench behind him noticing as he did so that, although beautiful, she seemed a bit uptight, a bit tense, her eyes flicking to the glass of whisky, teeth worrying her lower lip as she fidgeted. He wondered what she was so edgy about.

Bodie attempted to smooth things over, giving Doyle a look that clearly admonished his appalling lack of manners. “He’ll be up for it next time.” He raised a confirming brow at his partner and Doyle nodded agreeably. “Right then, I know a little place, where the music is good and the drinks are cheap. Shall we go ladies?”

“Well, perhaps a toast before we go?” Katie said raising her own glass in the air and looking intently at Doyle. “To Ray, hope you are feeling better tomorrow.”

Bodie smiled charmingly at her and raised his own glass. Doyle didn’t think mixing alcohol with pain killers was a good idea, but if it got rid of them… he picked up the drink and swallowed the Scotch in one mouthful before reaching around and putting the glass in the sink, careful not to expose the weapon tucked into the top of his jeans. Donna was collecting their coats and Doyle looked back to Katie, saw sudden relief flood her face and frowned, puzzled. Bodie began shepherding the girls towards the door.

“Oh wait,” Katie exclaimed, “I forgot my bag,”

She turned and went back into the living room. Bodie helped Donna on with her coat. Standing at the sink waiting, Doyle felt a sudden wave of dizziness. He really needed sleep he thought blearily, rubbing his eyes. Katie was taking her time, what the hell was she doing? But just as he was about to go look for her, she reappeared, taking a long assessing look at him as she passed. “Another time, Ray?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Doyle kept a grip on the kitchen bench and waited until both women were safely out the door before reaching around with one unsteady hand, pulling the gun from the small of his back, and checking the safety catch. Another wave of dizziness caught him. Clumsy and distracted, he tucked the weapon down the front of his jeans so that he could hold on to the rocking bench with both hands.

Bodie hesitated at the door, attuned to his partner. “Ray?”

“I’m all right,” Doyle insisted, flapping his hands in dismissal. “Go on, I just need a good night’s sleep.”

Bodie frowned at him, hearing his words slur. He hadn’t slurred before. “Maybe you should have stayed in hospital.”

“Bodie!”

“All right, all right, keep your shirt on. Just don’t forget to set the alarms and locks. And dry your hair before you get pneumonia.” He waited for the bite but Doyle seemed miles away, eyes unfocused, gripping the edge of the kitchen bench. Bodie’s eyes travelled down Doyle’s left arm to that white knuckled grip, took a half step towards him. “Ray?”

Doyle jerked his head up and nodded acknowledgement to his partner, rubbing his eyes with one hand, keeping a grip on the edge of the bench with the other. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll dry my hair, then I’m hitting the sack.”

There was a plaintive call from Donna outside and Bodie tapped the door.

“Alarms,” he repeated, pausing again, before almost reluctantly, shutting the door behind him.

Doyle stayed where he was, waiting for the dizziness to pass, but if anything it got worse. He took a step towards the door and the floor tilted alarmingly. Something wasn’t right. Doyle tried to yell, to get his partner back, but suddenly the floor was coming up to meet him, the gun in his waistband slamming painfully into his stomach as he instinctively raised a hand, just in time, to stop his face smashing into the tiles. He heard Bodie’s car start up outside and tried to raise himself up. Nothing co-operated, his arms feeble and useless, ignoring the command from his brain to push upright. Fear gripped sudden and hard. He couldn’t move. A lethargic mist was curling around his vision, the room tilting upside-down. And he felt rather than saw the door open again behind him. Heard footsteps on the floor, cold air swirling around his half naked body. Felt hands touching him; turn him over, traipsing over his stomach to take his gun. Lift him from the cold tiles, shoulders and legs, carry him back upstairs.

Doyle tried to protest, tried to fight off these hands that carried him into his bedroom, laid him gently on his bed, arranged him to their liking - just so, arms and legs casual, pillows behind his head. But his limbs were like lead, unresponsive to the shrieking commands of his mind, and they stayed where the unknown, impersonal hands had placed them. The ceiling spun like a merry-go-round, faster and faster, dark shrouded figures hovered over him, gloved hands gliding over his wet skin and he inwardly recoiled, aware of their touch, their presence, and his inability to fight them. What the hell was wrong with him?

Who were they? He couldn’t focus on their faces, and the mist was thickening, like fog, but he could feel them, sense their ill intent and his helplessness frightened him. What the hell did they want? Waiting, the room still spinning crazily, he sprawled on the bed; aware of the hands returning to his now icy skin and he inwardly flinched. Then he felt his left arm being raised, something tight wrapping around his bicep, and tried to roll away, but his body, paralysed, disobeyed his brain’s feverish commands. A finger tapped the inside of his left arm and Doyle abruptly knew what was going to happen. Terrifyingly knew that he couldn’t stop it. He needed help and fast. His spinning mind sought a face and his lips formed the name. He felt the prick of a needle pierce his skin; find a vein. Bodie! Warmth flowed into his arm. Bodie! Blackness descended.

 

***********

 

Bodie was quiet as he drove towards the bright lights of the London nightlife. He had a persistent feeling of foreboding and Doyle’s unorthodox behaviour was bothering him. His partner had taken a fair whack to the head and although it hadn’t knocked him out, it had knocked him flying. He’d seemed all right at the hospital and when they’d first turned up at the flat, but as they were leaving...

Donna half turned in her seat and laid her hand on his thigh. Bodie smiled absently and checked the rear vision mirror. Katie was fidgeting, staring out of the window, eyes haunted, teeth again worrying her lower lip. Donna’s other hand came up, angled across his shoulders, stroked his hair and Bodie glanced across at her, at her exquisite face, painted lips smiling prettily at him. The nightclub was just up ahead. The feeling of foreboding grew stronger - too many years working with Doyle, no doubt - and Bodie made up his mind. He pulled the car over to the kerb and got out, tilting the driver’s seat forward so that Katie could climb from the back.

Donna alighted and stood on the footpath, “I don’t think you can park here, Bodie.”

Bodie looked across at her. “You go on without me, love, I just want to nip back and check on Ray. I’ll meet you inside later.”

“Bodie,” Donna began but Katie hurriedly put out a hand, fastened it on Bodie’s arm. He looked down at the hand and then up at her face, dark blue eyes questioning.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Katie said, dropping her hand quickly. “Just tired. He’s probably sleeping.”

Bodie thought of his partner clutching the edge of the kitchen bench, swaying, eyes unfocused. He stared at her penetratingly before inserting himself back into the car and slamming the door. Turning the ignition key, he spun the wheel, sending the Capri back the way he had come, leaving both women standing on the footpath.

The feeling of unease escalated steadily as he drove back out of central London and all sorts of possibilities manufactured themselves in his imagination. Concussion, most likely. He should have made the stubborn sod stay overnight in hospital, should have ignored his protests. Brain haemorrhage, another part of his mind offered and Bodie stamped his foot down on the accelerator. Whatever it was, he should have stayed and seen to him, made sure he was all right.

The unease moved smoothly into fear and then flared into near panic when he turned the corner into Doyle’s street and saw the flashing blue and red lights, police, marked and unmarked cars, dark figures milling around them and resplendent in the middle of this chaos, a large white ambulance parked out the front of his partner's flat. Two attendants were carrying a stretcher out of the gate, the body covered in a white sheet.

Bodie screeched to a halt and exploded from the Capri, leaving the door swinging wildly as he fought his way to the ambulance, dark eyes fixed unerringly on that linen covered body. A uniformed policeman blocked his way. Bodie fished automatically into his pocket, produced his ID and waved it at the policeman, but to his surprise, it was ignored. “Sorry, sir, I cannot permit you to enter, this is a crime scene.”

“I have authority,” Bodie snapped.

“Not in this instance, sir. This involves a crime with one of your mob and as such CI5 are prevented from investigating it.”

Bodie stared at him, then at the stretcher, ready to be loaded. His face drained and shoving the young constable aside he was suddenly running, haring towards that body, long and slim under the shroud. The constable gave chase, calling for support, but Bodie reached the stretcher way ahead of him, skidding to a halt, startling the ambulance attendants. He ripped back the sheet in one swift motion, naked fear taking hold of him, nothing able to prepare him for what he might see. The hair was dark, curling, splayed across the white padded stretcher. The eyes were closed, the lips slightly parted. The face was horribly bruised, blue and quite, quite dead.

Bodie stared, a muscle twitching in his cheek. She’d been young and pretty, and she'd been beaten badly but all he could think, all he could lock on to... was that it wasn't Ray. Christ, it wasn’t Doyle. He carefully let out the breath he hadn't been aware of holding; relief short lived. It wasn't Doyle, but who the hell was she? And where was Doyle? His eyes shot up to his partner’s flat, brilliantly lit.

The young constable had reached his side and took his arm. Bodie shook him off, intending to enter Doyle’s flat but was halted by a voice he immediately recognised. “Stop right there, Bodie.”

He spun around; face deadly in its intensity and involuntarily, Clive Williams took a hasty step backwards. “He’s not there.”

“You’d better start making sense, Williams,” Bodie snarled.

The MI6 man nodded towards the house, where several other MI6 agents could been seen. “Doyle, he’s been arrested. He’s not there.”

“Where,” said Bodie with ill-disguised patience, “is he?”

“Can’t tell you that, you know the rules. CI5 cannot investigate one of their own. Even Cowley will tell you that.”

“Investigate him for what?” Bodie shouted, taking another step towards the MI6 man.

Williams looked smug. “Drug trafficking and murder for a start. Possible sexual assault for another. Not so squeaky clean your Doyle then is he?”

The smug look was abruptly wiped from his face as Bodie unhesitatingly let loose with an explosive right hook, his slow burning fuse well and truly detonated. Williams went careening backwards, nose spurting a very satisfying bright red.

“BODIE!”

Bodie swung his lethal gaze up, saw the Ford Granada, the familiar shape alighting from it and stepped back, face immediately closing down.

 

 

***********************

 

 

“You damn fool, you want to block us completely from this?” George Cowley looked at his disobedient agent with marked disfavour and if his eyes softened for just a fraction, Bodie didn’t see it. “We can’t interfere in this investigation.”

Bodie finally swung his head around, glared at his chief. “So we leave Doyle to rot, wherever they’ve taken him?”

“No.” Cowley’s voice was stern. “We go by the proper channels. They can’t deny us seeing Doyle. They can’t deny us seeing the evidence. They can however, deny us actively taking part in the investigation. Punching young Williams in the face isn’t going to do Doyle any good.”

“Maybe. But it did me a lot of good,” Bodie muttered, eyes still smouldering as he glanced across at the MI6 agent, who had gained his feet, eyeing Bodie angrily over the handkerchief clapped to his nose.

Cowley gave Williams a look of dislike. One of his colleagues had appeared to help him up, Cowley couldn’t remember his name, Perkins, maybe, Parsons. He turned back to Bodie and gave him a disgruntled, if sympathetic look. “Aye, no doubt. Come along laddie, we have work to do.”

Bodie angled an eyebrow up. “Work?”

“Yes. We need to see Doyle. He’s in hospital. Under MI6 guard. I’ll drive, you don’t look like you should be behind the wheel.”

Bodie obediently followed his chief to the Ford Granada. He waited until he was in the passenger seat before he let fly. “What is this, what happened?”

Cowley glanced at him briefly as he started the car. “What do you know?”

“Know? Sod all! I left him less than two hours ago and he was fine.” But even as he said it, Bodie knew that was wrong. He hadn’t been fine. That was why he’d come back to check wasn’t it?

“I don’t know all the details. I know that both Doyle and the girl were in bed, the implements for a heroin fix scattered about them, that there were significant amounts of other drugs found in his flat. No sign of a struggle.”

Bodie let the words rush over him, but they were very nearly drowned out by a roaring in his ears. The blood drained from his face. His anger surged, re-igniting that smouldering fuse. “It’s a set up. Drugs? And Doyle? What sort of nutter would think for one minute that anyone’d believe Doyle doing drugs? They must be out of their mind.”

“A jury system would, if given the evidence.” Cowley’s voice was like a whip.

“Doyle hates drugs, hates them with a passion. He wouldn’t even dip while he was on the drug squad, not even to keep his cover intact.”

Cowley nodded. “You and I know that, Bodie. We just have to prove beyond doubt it’s true.”

Bodie flopped back into his seat seething. “Who? And why?”

“You know the answer to that, lad. We’ve been there before and no doubt we will again. Grudges Bodie. Long memories.”

Bodie turned to look out of the window. Why hadn’t he stayed?

Chapter 2

Doyle hadn’t been taken to the usual CI5 ward. He was instead in the high security wing and not one, but two men stood on guard at the door. Cowley stopped before them as they barred his way. “I have clearance from the minister,” he said, voice soft but authoritative. “Let me through.”

No one argued with Cowley when he used that sort of voice and they stood reluctantly aside. Bodie followed his chief into the room. A doctor was just straightening up from the bed, a stethoscope in his hand. He twisted to see who had interrupted him, removing the earpieces from his ears as he did so. Bodie’s face tightened as he gazed at the bed and its occupant.

Doyle lay peacefully on the mattress, his wide expressive eyes shut, dark lashes causing shadows under the harsh fluorescent lights. His chest rose and fell reassuringly, but the oxygen mask was a stark and brutal reminder that all wasn’t well. As were the handcuffs, securing his right wrist firmly to the side rails of the bed. Bodie, for some obscure reason, saw that Doyle’s hair was still damp, bedraggled, not quite dry enough to spring back into its usual curls. As though he hadn’t dried it after they’d left. It made his partner look somehow fragile and Bodie’s temper flared again.

Cowley, correctly expecting no help from the angry young operative at his shoulder, produced his own ID to the doctor. “We need to know his condition.”

The doctor flicked a quick look to one of the MI6 men who had followed him in but knew authority when he heard it.

“He’s drugged,” the doctor stated, carefully modulating his voice to convey facts only. “Heroin user, you can see the marks here…” he lifted Doyle’s left arm to demonstrate, and Bodie saw the telltale needle tracks. And there wasn’t just one. Anger bubbled under the surface but a hard look from Cowley silenced the protest about to erupt.

“It wasn’t enough for an overdose,” the doctor went on, laying Doyle’s arm back down. “But it seems to have produced this sort of coma state, I can’t quite work it out. If I didn’t know better, I would think there was something else….”

“Something else?” Cowley queried, his voice still mild, but Bodie hadn’t missed his hard look at Doyle as he’d entered. His boss wasn’t happy, not at all.

“Yes,” the doctor applied the earpieces of the stethoscope to his ears again, pulled the sheet covering his patient further down, exposing his abdomen and placed the flat piece of the instrument over Doyle’s heart, resuming his examination. “I’ve examined a lot of heroin junkies, but this is different. Heroin can produce lethargy, sleepiness. But there is usually a response of some sort, some sort of reaction to stimulus, unless they’ve overdosed.” He glanced up to make his point clear. “Which of course can lead to coma and death. But not this one. I don’t think he’s overdosed; yet he’s displaying the comatose symptoms of one. I can’t be positive, but it’s like there’s another drug in his system.”

“How can you find out?” Cowley was fully aware of Bodie, tense just behind him. Knew he was hovering on the edge of exploding.

“Blood tests may tell us. Depends on what it was. I’ve taken samples.” He fussed with the sheet to place the stethoscope on Doyle’s stomach.

But Bodie had noticed something as the sheet had moved. He reached forward and pulled the sheet further down. The doctor stepped back startled. Doyle’s chest rose and fell regularly, signalling normal breathing patterns but Bodie’s attention switched to his partner’s legs, still in the dirty jeans he had pulled on in a hurry when leaving the shower. He stared in consternation. Doyle hadn’t dried his hair; he hadn’t changed out of his filthy jeans.

“What is it?” Cowley asked, as Bodie moved closer, his eyes coming back to what had caught his attention at the waistband of the jeans. Mottled shading. Bodie reached out, snapped open the clip of Doyle’s jeans and the bruising was more apparent, darkish red, still new, shaped roughly like an upside-down ‘L’.

The doctor peered closer as well. “Bruising to the abdomen; looks consistent with a blow.”

Bodie felt sick. “Did the alarms go off?” he asked Cowley harshly.

Cowley shook his head. “No, they weren’t set.”

Bodie inhaled angrily and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “He had his gun in the waistband of his jeans when we left him in the kitchen. He looked dizzy and his words were slurring. He said he was just tired.” He gestured to the bruising. “He’s fallen. He fell forwards and the gun left that impression. It must have happened right after we left. His hair, the jeans… Where was his gun, when MI6 found him?”

Cowley gazed shrewdly at him. “I don’t have the facts yet.”

“Slurring is a symptom of heroin usage,” the doctor put in unhelpfully. “He’s a frequent user, there’s a trail, although these all look new to me.”

“I saw his arm as we left.” Bodie raised his voice, glowering at the doctor. He stabbed his index finger to the tracks in his partner's arm. “There were no needle marks and he’s not a junkie, he wouldn’t touch the stuff. This has been forced on him.” He turned instinctively to Cowley, dark blue eyes intense. “He must have fallen in the kitchen, right after we left him.”

“Bodie,” Cowley said warningly.

“He was all right when we were at the hospital,” Bodie said fiercely. “He was all right when we got to his flat. It was when we were leaving.” He stopped, casting his mind back, recalling. Doyle had come down the stairs, his usual self. He’d taken aspirin, Bodie had handed him the glass himself. There’d been no evidence of Doyle consuming anything else between arriving home and taking a shower, and Bodie knew his partner well. For all that he dressed so scruffily, Doyle was fastidious about being clean. He would have put the shower before food or drink. He swung his attention back to the doctor. “He’d taken three aspirins, would that be this second drug you think is in his system?”

“Not at all.” The doctor shook his head baffled. “Aspirin wouldn’t cause him to be like this, nor would the heroin itself unless, like I mentioned before, he’d taken a fatal dose, in which case he’d be dead by now. If you’d said sleeping tablets, I might be inclined to agree.”

Bodie had a sudden vision, of the four of them standing in the kitchen, of Katie proposing a toast to Ray’s good health. Of her bringing him the glass of Scotch, of her taking a long time to collect her bag. He took a step back, face white. That bitch. That bitch, she slipped Doyle something in the drink, she had to have done.

He turned to Cowley. “I have to go, find this girl, I think she may have slipped Doyle a drug. The glass, Ray left it in the sink. And I bet she made a phone call, if you can check his phone sir.”

“We can’t investigate this Bodie,” Cowley said loudly.

Bodie stared at him, eyes dangerously narrowed. Cowley flicked his eyes upwards and Bodie belatedly remembering the MI6 man, standing just inside the door, tried to make his voice meek and obedient. “Yes sir.”

“I think you should go home now, Bodie and get some rest. We’ll see what we can do in the morning.”

Bodie nodded infinitely to his boss and hurriedly squeezed Doyle’s cuffed wrist before leaving the ward.

Cowley remained, staring thoughtfully at his agent’s peaceful face. He ran a finger lightly along the needle marks in Doyle’s arm. The doctor was right, they were all new, but that wouldn’t prove a thing in court. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to have his man convicted and Cowley very much wanted to know who. But first he had to do his best by Doyle.

“Rest easy, lad,” he said, patting the arm. “We’ll get you out of this.”

 

******************

 

The nightclub was hopping when Bodie got out of the taxi. Couples and groups of young people hung around the outside and the neon lights flashed brilliantly, reflected in the wet footpath. Bodie pushed his way to the door and held out his ID. The bouncers overseeing the entry nodded resignedly to him and he went on in. It was packed. He threaded his way through the crowd looking for Donna’s blond head, hoping against hope that Katie was still with her. He finally found her at the far end of the bar, engaged in very close conversation with a young man in a velvet suit. Bodie wrinkled his nose sneeringly, and the young man discreetly departed, but Donna gave him a decidedly frosty look. “Oh so you decided to show up.”

Bodie didn’t waste time. “Where’s Katie?”

The look that flashed across her face should have warned him, but Bodie’s thoughts were miles away from jealous girlfriends. “How should I know? She didn’t even bother coming in. Hailed a taxi and split.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

Donna’s face hardened and she stood up. “I didn’t ask her, I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

Bodie’s brain finally clicked into the here and now and he grabbed her arm as she made to stalk off. “Sorry, love, sorry, but Ray’s in hospital, and I thought Katie might like to know.”

She stared at him suspiciously for a moment and then softened, lips parting in sympathy, eyes filled with sudden understanding. She had known Bodie long enough to know that he and Ray were very good friends as well as work colleagues. “Is he all right, what happened? Is there something I can do?”

Bodie held on to his patience. “Yeah, love, you can tell me what you know about Katie. Did she say anything at all about herself to you?”

“No, she was anxious to go, she looked sort of scared if you ask me.”

Bodie clamped his jaw in frustration.

”She took a taxi to Fulham.”

“Fulham?” Bodie leaned down to her, to hear over the music.

“I heard her tell the driver.”

He could ring the taxi company. He caught Donna’s lovely face between his hands and kissed her full on the lips. “You’re a doll.”

She had no time to savour it, he was gone, and she didn’t know whether to be angry or not.

 

******************

 

George Cowley turned on the lights in his office, prepared to make a night of it. He crossed to the desk first and dialled a number, gave instructions to trace all calls made from 4.5’s flat and then hung up the phone, staring at it thoughtfully. If Bodie was right and the unknown drug was administered in a glass, he needed to secure the evidence. MI6 had appointed Williams to the case and Williams certainly had no love for either Doyle or Bodie. How could he get the glass without twigging Williams to it? The drug squad would almost certainly be called in and Doyle had once worked with them. Benny would know, Cowley had recruited him from the Drug Squad and he might be able use his connections. He picked up the phone and dialled again.

He’d barely replaced it when Bodie walked in. Cowley removed his glasses and looked up at him, pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Still wired, he noticed, his young agent didn’t sit down. Instead, unusually, he paced back and forth as he explained about the girl. Cowley lifted the phone for the third time to pass instructions to the taxi companies.

“It will take a while for the results to filter in.” Cowley replaced the phone and looked up at Bodie. “Doyle won’t wake until morning, why don’t you go home?”

Bodie stopped pacing, face closed down, unreadable, but Cowley knew what he was thinking. Bodie was berating himself for leaving his partner.

”Not your fault, Bodie,” he said. “Doyle is as stubborn as you are.”

Bodie looked up. “Who was the dead girl?”

Cowley shrugged. “I’ve no idea. A junkie, that’s all we know, judging by the needle tracks on her arms. She was found naked in bed next to Doyle, and she’d been beaten to death. Her clothes are in forensics.”

Bodie paced. “If you leave this case to Williams he’ll throw away the key.”

“I back my men, Bodie, and I don’t take kindly to my men being set up. I have a meeting with the minister and MI6 in the morning. If you’d like to join us you’ll be able to see the evidence they’ve collected and we can proceed from there. It’s possible that they may have come to the same conclusion as ourselves, that it’s a set up and Doyle will be freed.”

His tone indicated differently though and Bodie didn’t argue; Cowley had done all he could for tonight.

He turned without a word and left. George Cowley sat and stared at the telephone. He didn’t need to look out of the window to know that Bodie hadn’t turned in the direction of his flat. He’d taken the main road to the hospital.

 

*****************

 

Davis, the MI6 guard on the door, had at first been reluctant to admit him.

“You can try and stop me,” Bodie said evenly. “If you want a bust up in the hall. But I’m going in. He hasn’t been formally charged yet, not until he wakes, which means you can’t stop me.”

“Let him go, Brad,” the other guard said tiredly. “He was here earlier and he can’t very well carry him out can he? There’s nothing any of us can do till he comes around.”

Bodie didn’t wait for an answer, just shoved past. The room had been dimmed in his absence and Doyle lay surrounded by machines, looking lonely and lost in the white bed. Bodie pulled up a chair, sat down and leaned back immensely tired. It was quiet and muted and although he hated hospitals, Bodie was glad for the peace, hoping it would calm his currently overactive brain. He opened his eyes and fixed them on his partner. “Come on, sunshine, wake up.”

But Doyle lay oblivious to the world, lax and loose in the bed, breathing in oxygen, unaware of anything around him.

The door opening roused Bodie from the doze he had drifted off into and he turned to see the doctor that they’d spoken to earlier entering. If he was surprised to see Bodie there he didn’t say so. Instead he said: “The blood tests are back, your boss put a rush on them. Peter wasn’t happy being dragged out of bed this late.”

Bodie raised a brow, less interested in Peter than the results. “What did they find?”

The doctor hesitated, glancing at the door again. “Heroin, not a lot, but still enough to identify. And to give him a good trip, but we’d guessed that from the evidence.” He indicated Doyle’s arm with his pen. “And there is something else, but the test came back inconclusive.”

“What does that mean?” Bodie demanded.

The doctor removed his stethoscope, “It means inconclusive. There was nothing in records to match it. Whatever it is, it’s new. But it put your boy down fairly quickly judging by his condition.”

Bodie was silent, inwardly seething as the doctor did his observations. Doyle didn’t move, not when the cold instrument pressed against his skin nor when the doctor gently palpitated his stomach. The bruise on his abdomen was darker, showing the distinct shape of the weapon that had caused it. Bodie was quite disturbed seeing his partner so still and lifeless and he stood up abruptly, resisting the urge to shake Doyle, wake him up, bring him back to the land of the living by sheer force.

Finally the doctor straightened up, and covered his patient with the sheet again. He looked rather penetratingly at Bodie. “When he comes down off his high, you may find him disorientated. He is most likely to have hallucinations and he may get violent. Sometimes it happens when drugs are mixed. And if - as you suspect - he was injected against his will, he may come back fighting.”

Well, Bodie didn’t expect anything less from his habitual feisty partner. He nodded to show he understood. “When do you think?”

The stethoscope looped back around his neck, the doctor shrugged looking tired. “Hard to say. I don’t know what else he took, or how long it will take to disburse from his system, to hazard a guess.”

It was in fact near to dawn, when Doyle finally stirred, waking Bodie from a fitful doze in the chair. A clank of metal on metal. At first he thought he’d imagined it, but his bleary eyes skimming the bed and its occupant finally came to rest on Doyle’s left hand clenched into a fist. Another clank of metal on metal and the right joined in, straining against the cuff linked to the bed rail. Bodie gazed, still half asleep at those arms, veins prominent and blue, muscles taut and bulging as his partner fought invisible assailants.

He leaned forward quickly. “Doyle?” He placed his hand on Doyle’s forearm, feeling the rigid flesh, the slight tremor and squeezed. “Ray?”

Doyle’s eyes suddenly snapped open, wide and staring, the pupils contracted to pinpoints, the irises huge and starkly blue in the shadowed light. Sweat broke out across his ashen face and the arm under Bodie’s hand spasmed again as though fighting against restraint.

“NO” - and it was a whisper, forced from between clenched teeth, but it conveyed an awful lot to Bodie, who knew his partner so well. Repulsion and disgust. Anger. Fear! Oh yes the fear was there, strong and tangible, gripping that slender body so that it arched, taut and hard, and Bodie remembered King Leon’s words, as if the crime lord had uttered them just yesterday. He is frightened of nothing that one, not even of what he should be.

“Ray, it’s OK, you’re in hospital.” Bodie rubbed his hand soothingly along Doyle’s forearm, trying to alleviate that strangling fear wrapped so suffocatingly tight around his partner. “It’s OK, wake up.”

But Ray Doyle bolted upright in bed, wrist wrenching painfully against the handcuff and his hoarse voice broke the peaceful silence of the room. “BODIE!”

All hell broke loose.

 

*************

Chapter 3

George Cowley had slept in his office for a total of three hours. Betty, his efficient and highly desirable secretary, had brought him an early breakfast and Cowley made use of the shower in the facilities before dressing in a clean shirt, several of which were kept in a closet in his office for just this purpose. Arriving at the ward containing one half of his top team, he was immensely startled to find other half lying across his struggling partner, pinning him to the bed and succeeding only by force of his greater weight.

The two MI6 guards stood just inside the doorway, hands hovering over their weapons, unsure of whether to pull them out or not.

“NO, Bodie, NO, Don’t… Don’t let them.” George Cowley could hear Doyle, voice as hoarse as sandpaper as he thrashed in the bed, fighting both his demons, and his partner who had one arm across his throat, the other holding down his left shoulder. “Bodie! Come back!”

And Bodie swearing, trying to soothe his teammate, reassuring him that there was no harm, that he was in hospital – all falling on deaf ears as Doyle tried desperately to buck him off and battle his hallucinations.

The bed was a wreck of twisted linen and equipment was strewn across the floor, broken. It looked like an almighty struggle had taken place.

Young doctor Everett was still in attendance, looking almost as tired as Bodie, his tie askew, his hair in disarray. He straightened up from his patient, empty hypodermic syringe in one hand and Doyle gradually stopped fighting, his body calming, arms falling back against the white sheets.

Bodie’s face was set and intense, angry as he held Doyle down. His partner subsided, breathing heavily, but Bodie received the full force of distressed greenish blue eyes as Doyle, still trapped in his flashback whispered: “I need you Bodie.”

“I’m here mate,” Bodie murmured, trying to get through to him. “You’re OK now, relax.”

Doyle’s wide eyes finally closed and the tense body relaxed, hands unclenching to lie docilely by his side.

“He should be all right now, you can let go,” Doctor Everett said and Bodie warily lessened his grip, ready to pounce back on his partner should he so much as move a muscle. But Doyle lay quiet, head rolling restlessly, sheened in perspiration.

“What the hell happened?” Cowley enquired, voice like a whiplash.

Bodie straightened up and turned to face his chief, unshaven, rumpled and dark eyed with menace. “Well,” he said belligerently, and smoothed his clothing. “It seems that if Doyle couldn’t fight them before, he certainly is now.”

“He’s reliving his helplessness,” Doctor Everett amplified. He picked up Doyle’s limp wrist and felt for a pulse. “Whatever that second drug was, it seemed to act as a paralysis.” He indicated Doyle, who was still twitching restlessly. “It’s wearing off, and he’s making up for lost time. I’m inclined to believe he didn’t do this willingly.”

Cowley looked across at the MI6 men. “Wait outside,” he told them curtly. They gave him mutinous looks but obeyed.

Cowley turned back, saw Bodie glowering after them and eyed his agent sternly. “You won’t help Doyle by picking fights with MI6 Bodie.” He turned back to the doctor. “What did you give him?”

“A sedative.” Doctor Everett replaced Doyle’s arm on the bed and instead bent over to lift an eyelid. “It will stop the violence but not send him under completely; he should still arrive back on his own, once he’s finished his trip.”

“Bodie.” Cowley took his arm. “Come with me.”

“I’d rather stay here, for when he wakes.”

“We can do nothing for Doyle here.” Cowley lowered his voice. “We have work to do to clear him.”

Bodie looked at the doctor. Doctor Everett gazed back at him and nodded slowly. “I can keep him sedated, for a bit longer.”

Bodie let his breath out and nodded gratefully back, then he was following Cowley down the corridor.

 

**************

 

The Granada was roomy, warm and comfortable compared to the Capri but Bodie wasn’t in any mood to appreciate it. He was tired and worried about his partner. He needed a shower and a change of clothes. Guilt stabbed at him with accusing fingers. Doyle’s violent awakening, still in the grip of the drugs, had given Bodie a substantial shock but it was his partner’s heartfelt plea to him, to Bodie, for assistance, that had hurt the most. Doyle was a fiery, hot-tempered, impetuous bundle of rage when riled, and there was no way he would have not fought back if he’d been able. That he had obviously tried to call for help ate at Bodie’s very soul. That girl - Katie. Bodie felt another spurt of guilt and rage, knowing it was him that had brought her to Doyle’s flat in the first place. If he had his hands on that girl right at this moment…..well, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

Cowley watched and waited, shrewdly judging the best time to intervene on Bodie’s thoughts. “Did he say anything?”

Bodie jerked his dark blue eyes back from the window and shook his head. “He’s still high. The unknown drug is wearing off, but the heroin has a bit to go yet.”

“Aye, well we have time yet.”

Bodie turned back to the window. Time for what? He had no idea what the old man was up to, had no idea what was going to happen to Doyle once he was lucid enough to be charged.

The minister’s office was neat and tidy, all dark wood and leather. Cigar smoke lingered in the air and Bodie sniffed loudly as the attractive secretary led them in. The minister looked up and frowned, and Bodie glowered back, his highly volatile mood still smouldering. Cowley shot a warning look at his young operative before walking across to shake hands.

“George, glad you could make it. Nasty business this, what? You know Henshaw and his man, Williams is it?”

Cowley looked across and his expression remained polite, if cold. “Yes, of course.”

“We’ve met several times, sir.” Henshaw said and sat forward, anxious to start. His time was valuable as was Cowley’s. Cowley walked across and sat at the small table where the folder lay. Bodie followed and remained standing, slightly behind and to the left of his boss.

“Drug pushing. In CI5.” The minister shook his head sorrowfully.

“That remains to be proven,” Cowley said sharply, throwing a contemptuous look at Williams. “My man is still in hospital and as yet has been unable to defend himself, or these allegations.”

“Your boy was caught red handed,” Henshaw said mildly. “A substantial amount of cocaine in his bathroom.”

“A plant.” Bodie interrupted angrily but Cowley cut in smoothly. “Aye, we have reason to believe he was set up.”

“By whom?” The minister perched on the arm of his chair. “Your men have the highest security available on their premises George, how did someone get in without setting off the alarms.”

“We won’t know until Doyle recovers,” Cowley said firmly.

“He let them in,” Williams interrupted hotly, eyeing Bodie with dislike. “How else can you explain all this? Drugs hidden on the premises. Your own man high as a kite. A dead junkie in bed with him. Tracks marks indicating frequent use.”

Bodie’s anger flashed dangerously. “Look, I know Doyle, he’s not a pusher, he’s not a user, he’s spent all his working life fighting against them. Someone is setting him up.”

“Bodie!” George Cowley’s voice was like a whip. They were on dangerous ground and Bodie being typically Bodie-ish wasn’t helping. He shot a reproving look at Henshaw, who got the hint and also reined his own man in. Williams subsided and he and Bodie stood glowering at each other, like boxers across a ring.

“You may find this contradicts your beliefs, George. These were taken at the scene.” Henshaw pushed the envelope across and Cowley took it distastefully. The photos were large, black and white and starkly damning in their evidence. Bodie’s brows drew down and his lips thinned as the images flicked though Cowley’s hands.

Doyle, at ease on the bed, reclining comfortably against the pillows, a tourniquet still around his upper left arm, the hypodermic still in his right hand. His eyes were closed and his chest was bare. Another one, taken from further back and the dead girl was there, naked, sprawled out next to him, grotesque in death. Another print, focused on the tourniquet and the telltale track marks, and Bodie suddenly reached forward, stopping his chief from turning to the next one.

Cowley paused, studying his agent intently. Bodie’s eyes were narrowed on the photograph. Droplets of water still scattered Doyle’s shoulders, his hair still in lank long rats’ tails. Still wet. Why couldn’t anyone see? Bodie was furious. Furious that this obvious set up was not being ridiculed for the sham it was. Doyle would have changed, Doyle would have dried his hair and Doyle would not have a junkie in his bed.

The minister heaved a sigh. “Bad business all round. Can’t have this you know, George, not good for public relations. Can’t have a bent man in one of our top crime fighting organisations. Don’t feel we have any choice but to investigate it.”

“You will give us the option to prove him innocent?” Cowley put the damning photographs back in the packet. He was angry and he could feel Bodie vibrating behind him, like a phone wire in a stiff breeze, tense and explosive, held only in check by the simple knowledge that losing his temper would more likely hinder his partner, rather than help him.

“Yes, yes, yes.” The minister stood up dismissively, intent on his next appointment. “But he must be remanded in custody until such time.”

Cowley’s head shot up and he felt rather than saw Bodie stiffen behind him. “You can’t put someone like Doyle in prison to await a hearing. It would literally be putting his life in danger.”

“The minister agrees,” Henshaw put in smoothly, “as, do I, George, that the repercussions of having him on bail is far more dangerous. Your boy is a trained killer. That girl was severely beaten and near strangled before she died. It would hardly be responsible of this government to let him loose on the streets with that charge hanging over him. His training is quite extensive, and his abilities on the wrong side would be disastrous.”

“You can’t send him to prison,” Bodie shouted, his slow fuse igniting in the face of this horrendous announcement. “It’d be giving a free licence to everyone Doyle has ever put away to do him harm.”

“Oh I’m positive our prison system isn’t so lax as to let anything happen to the lad, and he’s well trained in any case, I’m sure he can keep himself from harm until this matter is solved,” the minister replied uncomfortably. “But I must say, George, I agree with Harold here. We simply can’t have a man of his capabilities loose on the general public while the investigation is on. Think of the backlash.”

“Guilty until proven innocent,” Cowley said icily.

“I’m sure Harold and his men at MI6 will do the best they can to ensure that it is investigated quickly and efficiently. And if it is a set up, as you claim, then he’ll be out in no time,” the minister said stiffly, then glanced at his watch. “But I have an appointment, so if you gentlemen will excuse me.”

 

**************

Chapter 4

 

Doyle looked around his cell and tried not to feel depressed. He had seen enough prisons in his time as a copper that was for sure, but he never thought he’d end up in one. Keep your nose clean, Cowley had told him, it’s only a few days, a week at the most, until he’d be called to answer the charge. Doyle intended to do just that. But the only problem was, he wasn’t the one they had to worry about.

He didn’t know who was in this particular wing, but he could bet there’d be someone here, someone with a grudge. He sat down on the bunk and tried to control the strange twitchiness that had plagued him since he’d woken in hospital. It was only a few days. And he’d been trained well enough. There were plenty of guards about. If he kept out of their way, maybe. He knew, as soon as he thought it, that it wouldn’t work. Not in a general wing. And especially not if he attracted an owner.

Doyle knew full well what went on in prison systems. How the weak, young and vulnerable – and predominantly the good looking - were preyed upon by the lifers. And while none of these facts particularly applied to him, his background in this instance might circumvent the normal criteria. Some of the top dogs would just itch to get ownership of a law enforcement agent. Oh yeah, he doubted he’d be left alone. And as though to prove it, he sensed movement at the doorway and stood up quickly, balancing his feet evenly, ready for trouble.

He almost didn’t recognise the man standing there. He had aged considerably since the last time Doyle had spoken to him, face sagging, unhealthy in colour and crossed with red spider veins. He was flanked by three heavies; thugs with tattoos, scars, battered faces. Doyle knew that Bill Haydon had enough clout in the system to still be a top dog. His contacts both in and out of prison were still strong. And Bill Haydon had even more reason to hate Ray Doyle now. Now that his daughter was also serving time.

“Well, well, well, this is a surprise. PC Doyle as I live and breathe. Although it isn’t PC now is it? It’s agent Doyle now. CI5, the big boys.” Haydon stepped into the cell, eyes bright in his unhealthy face. “How the mighty have fallen.”

Doyle stood his ground, warily watching the men as they crowded in after him. He strained his ears for the measured footsteps of the guards, but it was ominously quiet. Paid off, he guessed bitterly. Prison governors came and went, but some things in the prison system never changed.

“Drugs. And worse. A pusher.” Haydon clucked like a mother hen as he strolled to the window. “That’s a good eight or nine years that is.” He turned back to Doyle maliciously. “Plenty of time for us to get to know each other properly. Plenty of time for others to get to know you as well.” He looked Doyle up and down and smirked. “Even more properly.”

He stepped closer and Doyle resisted the urge to back up, determined to show no fear. Haydon peered at him. “Kept your pretty looks too.” He pulled at the baggy prison issue Doyle was wearing. “This won’t do though, will it, my son? Don’t quite show off your best assets now does it? We’ll have to arrange a better fit; I’ll have a word with laundry.” He walked slowly around the silent agent, highly pleased with himself. “Oh yeah, my son, you’ll be the toast of the shower block. Barry’s boys like the young pretty ones and you’ll fetch a nice price for your owner. They’ll pass you around like my old lady’s mince pies at Christmas.”

Doyle paled slightly and his easy to read eyes gave him away instantly. Bill Haydon chuckled, a bitter and menacing sound, devoid of humour. “Yeah I know all about what happened. You’re mine now boy. They’ve stitched you up good and proper. If you think you’ll be found innocent, you don’t know the half of it.” He reached up a hand, as though to pat Doyle’s cheek and Doyle slapped the hand away, his other coming up instinctively to land a punch on Bill Haydon’s chin. It wasn’t a hard punch, not as hard as he could have done, but it still made Big Bill Haydon stagger back. The minute his fist connected, Doyle knew he’d made a grave error.

The three heavies immediately moved in, and dimly Doyle heard Haydon caution: “Not too much lads, we don’t want him in hospital do we? And we certainly don’t want anything to spoil the auction.”

 

**************

 

George Cowley sat at his desk as usual surrounded by files. His glasses were perched firmly on his nose and he read the pathology report in his hand carefully before sitting back and reflectively pulling at his bottom lip. Dr Everett had risked his job by omitting one vial of Doyle’s blood from the samples handed to MI6 and Cowley had hurriedly sent them down to the CI5 forensics team post haste. The results were startling. An unknown drug. And Doyle had been subjected to it.

Cowley removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. New drugs were being developed every day, the illicit ones far faster than the legal ones and it was a constant battle to stay one step ahead of them. But this one… this one was a right nasty piece of work. No wonder there were no signs of a struggle, not with its suspected paralysing effect. Doyle hadn’t been unaware of what was happening and Cowley felt a vast and sudden sympathy for his operative and what he had endured. To know what was happening and yet be unable to move, to prevent it.

Cowley mused on its purpose. A drug that didn’t render a victim unconscious, but only immobile. Drink spiking came to mind. Potential rape. The criminal element would love it as well, an immobile victim to torture and hurt, however to a degree aware of what was happening. Easy prey.

He’d heard nothing of this type of drug being out on the streets. But it had been used on Doyle, perhaps testing it for them, a human guinea pig.

Well at least they knew it had been administered orally and Cowley only had Bodie’s word on that as the glass had mysteriously disappeared in the course of MI6’s investigation. The rest of the blood test showed the expected heroin mix, a surprisingly small amount, and also a side note that Doyle was slightly low in iron. Cowley grimaced briefly and moved on to the next report from the taxi company. The driver had been unhelpful, stating only that the lady in question had been dropped off in Coronation Drive and had set off on foot. There was no phone call made from Doyle’s flat that night, although the telecommunications people had added notation that unless it was a connected call, it wouldn’t register. Which meant a phone allowed to ring a number of times before disconnecting could have been a code to move in. Cowley placed the papers into a neat pile.

There were many things Cowley disliked in life. He disliked budget-cutting bureaucrats, he hated terrorists with a passion and he loathed people that preyed on the weakness of others. A strong dislike of drugs was something he shared with Doyle. Cowley shuddered to think of this particular drug being widespread in the community.

But even more that all of this combined, Cowley hated his men being set up. And it surely was a set up. But a set up on Doyle not Bodie. A grudge. He stared at the papers. But not small time, this grudge. This was someone bigger, someone with high contacts, access to the best. Cowley picked up the phone and ordered the retrieval of Doyle’s arrest records again. They’d gone through them once before, during the Preston case, yet he couldn’t remember anyone matching that criteria from Doyle’s time in the force. Unless they’d come up in the world. Or, unless it wasn’t from that long ago. But then if it were more recent, while Doyle was in CI5, why him and not Bodie? He’d partnered them some years ago now; they worked on most cases together. Perhaps Bodie was the next target? Cowley got up and limped over the drinks cabinet. No one had yet made a move on Bodie so maybe it wasn’t CI5 related either. It could just as easily be someone who had a personal grudge. Cowley poured a neat finger of Scotch, still deep in thought. Who had Doyle pissed off this time?

 

****************

 

They had come for him again. It hadn’t seemed that long since the last time. There was no rhyme or reason to their coming, the only consistency being the screws absent from their rounds. He lay on his bunk, only half aware of what was happening, voices disjointed around him, the gag in his mouth salty and dry. Rough hands held him down, immobile, clammy fingers stroked his arm. He had stopped wondering how they got away with it, but he hadn’t stopped fighting them, his nature impelling him to at least try, although he was inevitably overpowered - everyone from guards to other prisoners indifferent to his fate. No one likes a bent copper.

But tonight had been the scariest of all. Because tonight, he’d heard them coming and he’d felt anticipation flow through his veins. It had made him fight more fiercely than ever before.

Yet it made no difference.

 

**************

Cowley had pulled some strings, slapped a D notice on the press and Doyle’s hearing was being held at a small, outdated, almost unused courthouse not far from the prison. The minister had surprisingly agreed to this request, considering his earlier declaration that Doyle was too dangerous to be allowed bail, but Bodie suspected he wanted to keep as low a profile as Cowley did. Leakage of this arrest could cause irreparable damage to CI5, not to mention the Home Office and he was obviously relying on Cowley’s ability to keep Doyle under control.

Bodie didn’t always agree with the law, but he did his best to uphold it. Doyle was the one with the conscience, with the morals, and it was Doyle that kept his partner’s feet grounded. But watching the court proceedings, feeling their case slipping away, the prosecution bleating about the photographs with outraged condemnation and Bodie could almost feel the hostile glances sent Doyle’s way from where he stood.

More worrying was the state of his partner. Cowley had produced a suit from somewhere. And a tie, which, as usual, looked as out of place on his scruffy partner as Cowley would in a ballgown. The suit was slightly too big and the collared shirt did not fit snugly. Bodie could see bruises from where he stood, purple fingermarks around the vicinity of that stiff while collar, dark against the pale gold of Doyle’s throat. Doyle fidgeted, restless, at odds with his exhausted appearance. Bodie tried to catch his partner’s eye as the defence barrister began a lengthy speech about the validity of the evidence but Doyle’s gaze skittered all over the courtroom and he shuffled from foot to foot.

Five days. Bodie frowned, watching the out of character performance from the gallery. Five days in that prison and Doyle looked worse than when he’d gone in. What had happened to him in there? He’d known, as had Doyle, that it wouldn’t be a smooth ride, and he’d expected his partner to be a bit roughed up, but not emerging as jumpy as a virgin on her wedding night.

Beside him Murphy shifted and whispered. “What’s with Doyle, he’s acting like he’s missed his daily vitamin hit.”

Bodie didn’t answer for a minute and then Murphy’s words penetrated. He watched as his partner shuffled some more, running his hand through his curls in agitation. The defence barrister droned on. Bodie never took his eyes off Doyle, Murphy’s words echoing in his head, as though they held a great significance, and suddenly Doyle switched his gaze and stared right back at him. Sweat beaded on his face and his eyes looked desperate. And Bodie knew, knew with certainty that Doyle was in big trouble.

 

**********

 

Cowley was a man that had a lot on his plate. His workload was enormous and he was answerable to the highest ranking men and women in the country. His job was more often than not distasteful. Necessary but distasteful and his men were subjected to horrors you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. Therefore when one of them was set up and incarcerated by the very men his organisation was formed to combat it left a very sour taste in his mouth. The responsibility to clear Doyle weighed heavily on him and Bodie’s fury certainly wasn’t helping matters.

“Six months,” Bodie shouted, stabbing his finger in Cowley’s direction as though Cowley had made the decision himself. “Doyle won’t last another ten minutes in there, never mind six months.”

Cowley looked up, his face lined and tired, but angry. “Aye, I’m aware of it Bodie, I don’t need you to tell me.”

“Something is going on in there,” Bodie hissed. “Something is happening to Doyle in there, we have to get him out.”

“We have to work within the law,” Cowley said and checked his watch.

“It’s never stopped you before,” Bodie pointed out with alacrity.

“I’ve managed to clean my own house without anyone else getting involved before,” Cowley snapped back. “But this was planned Bodie. Planned very well indeed. The anonymous call to the police, the plant, the disappearance of the glass used, the dead end with the taxi companies. Oh someone big is behind this; you can bet anything else we try will be blocked as well, whether by coercion or bribery. Someone with a lot of power enabled this to happen and he has fingers in high places, you can be sure of that.”

He stalked to the window, calming down, understanding Bodie’s anger quite well. It, after all, matched his own.

“I’ve asked for him to go into solitary confinement until the trial.” Cowley stared out into the car park. Clouds were forming, bringing an end to the unseasonably clear weather. He was aware of Bodie’s eyes drilling into his back, hot and incensed and sighed heavily. The not guilty plea had been entered but Cowley wasn’t confident that a jury would find him so. It had all been so neatly tied up, Doyle’s unreliable memory the biggest hindrance. Oh he’d remembered falling, figures coming in. Remembered being carried upstairs, the prick of the needle in his arm. Nothing else. No identification, no struggle, no evidence to support what had happened. It didn’t look good. Even believing Doyle without a doubt, Cowley knew it didn’t look good.

He stared at his car parked by the courtroom doors thinking hard, then swung his gaze around to the powerful dark haired agent behind him. A good man, Bodie, tough, efficient and totally ruthless. And with an Achilles heel. “I’ve arranged for us to see him, before they return him to the prison. A special favour. He should be able to assure you he is all right.”

His answer was a slammed door. He sighed and turned back to the window, watching the rain clouds gathering over the far rooftops.

 

**************

 

Bodie stood in the small lobby, trying to calm down, the sense of something very explosive about to happen creeping over his skin, but not knowing what and he felt a faint surge of adrenaline, preparing him for it. A man and a woman passed behind him, arguing and he moved to stand by the doors, automatically taking in the layout, not surprised that the old courthouse was used for only the most minor offences, it was open to the street, quite small, badly planned and easily accessible. In fact he was reasonably sure that the minister would probably have denied its selection if he’d seen for himself the inadequacy of the place.

Suddenly Bodie couldn’t stand the closed in rooms any longer. He left hurriedly, jogging out into the fresh air and took some steadying deep breaths. The unseasonably clear day and quiet afternoon light put him in mind of football and crisp evenings and heading home for a hot meal, and he thought bitterly of Doyle, stuck inside, his freedom taken from him on the word of another. Justice! Justice for whom?

He scanned the car park despondently and a flashing red light caught his attention. They’d come in Cowley’s car, he and Cowley and Murphy, the radio handset was beeping, calling. Bodie trudged over and opened the door, dropping into the driver’s seat. He lifted the mic from its cradle and brought it to his mouth. “3.7”

“Call for you, 3.7. Wouldn’t give a name, says it’s about 4.5.”

The weariness vanished in an instant. “Put ‘em through.”

The voice when it came was elderly and quite obviously frightened. “Are you Mr Doyle’s partner?”

“That’s right,” Bodie confirmed. “Who are you?”

“Never mind.” The voice was jittery, breathy as though having second thoughts about this. Terrified. “Mr Doyle, he was good to us, when he was on the force. Helped our son out, got him on the straight and narrow. So we owe him. My old man’s in the nick and he told me to warn you.”

Bodie’s blood ran cold. “Warn me about what?”

“That Mr Doyle…oh you need to get him out of there. They are having an auction. They are going to auction him. He’ll have an owner. Do you know what I’m saying here?”

Bodie froze and he stared unseeing out of the windscreen. He knew all right. He knew what went on in some prison systems and Doyle was fair game until he was owned. And even then, his owner could and probably would, hire him out.

The querulous voice came again, but he barely heard it. “Someone big has set this up and my old man said to tell you. Big enough to make sure he’ll go down. Someone wants him bad… oh…and what they’ve got planned for him doesn’t bear thinking about. You have to help him.”

There was a distinct click and the line cut out. Bodie went on staring out of the windscreen, hands gripping the silent RT unit, the quiet peace of the afternoon shattered into a million pieces.

 

**********

 

The interview room contained a desk and two chairs and was depressingly bleak, despite the large window that displayed its proximity to the front doors and the car park. Bodie stared morosely out of the window. Quite ironic really, how a dirty car park and busy street could designate freedom so effectively in the right circumstances. Silence reigned, the occupants quietly waiting until finally footsteps fell on the tiles outside the door.

Cowley stood with the defence barrister, his face calm and composed despite the bleak outcome of the hearing. Bodie turned from the window and moved to stand behind his boss. His emotions were in turmoil, in agony for his partner. He imagined being locked up in solitary confinement for six months waiting for a trial that by all indications would go against him. He would go stir crazy, no doubt of that, but look at the alternative. Being auctioned for the highest price, owned and used. Bodie had spent much of the last hour trying to figure some way around this. And he’d failed. He’d failed Doyle. And now he’d have to face his partner knowing that.

The door opened and Doyle was led in flanked by two courtroom security men. He’d changed back into his prison issue, the dark blue trousers, denim shirt and jacket, threadbare and old and terribly snug, even for Doyle, as though they were a couple of sizes too small. His partner still looked immensely tired, as though he hadn’t been sleeping and no wonder, Bodie thought savagely, he’d have to keep his guard up at all times, day and night. Busy searching his partner’s face, it took a minute for Bodie to realise that Doyle’s hands were cuffed behind him and that the guards were keeping a firm hold on his arms.

“There is no need for cuffs,” Cowley interjected before Bodie could say anything.

“Sorry sir, court orders,” one of the security men said politely. “He is designated as a high risk prisoner and therefore has to be restrained outside of the holding cells. We don’t usually take high risk cases here sir.”

Cowley glanced briefly at Bodie and nodded. “Aye. Well you’ve escorted him here, now kindly wait outside.”

Both men hesitated fractionally but the barrister also nodded at them and they left the room to take up station outside the closed door. Doyle remained standing, shuffling slightly, eyes red rimmed and as Bodie watched, he tilted his face towards the window, to that warm golden light and Bodie saw the long muscles of his throat flex, as he swallowed.

Cowley gave his agent a hard look but made no mention of his condition, merely said, “We will try and get you an earlier trial.”

Doyle made no acknowledgement and Cowley added, “And I’ve requested solitary confinement for you.”

At that Doyle jerked his head back and gave a soft disbelieving snort. Bodie watched him carefully. It looked like he’d all but given in and that was so unlike the Ray Doyle he knew. His temper flared again and he stepped forward. “Ray, tell us what’s happening to you.”

But Doyle stubbornly remained silent and it dawned on Bodie, that he didn’t want him to know. Didn’t want him to feel useless, powerless to help. For the first time in their partnership, he was unable to watch his partner’s back. He turned back to Cowley incensed. “This isn’t good enough!”

“It’s the law, Bodie.” Doyle spoke for the first time and those bruised eyes came up to regard him dejectedly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

And Bodie knew it. This was outside CI5’s power. Fists clenched, he strode back to the window while the defence barrister explained Doyle’s position to him. Doyle fidgeted, eyes glazing clearly not listening, seemingly unaware of his partner’s intense scrutiny.

What the hell was wrong with him? Something was being done to him in there, his uncharacteristic behaviour betraying his silence. Had the auction started? Doyle wasn’t sleeping, that much was obvious from his appearance, but was he managing to fight them off?

Bodie had a sudden certainty, he didn’t know why, that Doyle really wouldn’t make six months. Whoever had set this up wasn’t going to risk Doyle being cleared at a trial. It’d be a hidden knife, a brawl, some sort of accident, but in the end it’d be Doyle’s life.

He glanced out of the window in desperation, hearing Doyle’s cuffs clinking gently and he saw the last of that quiet afternoon light before it went out, extinguished by the oncoming rain clouds, as though a portent for Doyle’s future. Bodie's eyes dropped again to Cowley’s car, parked by the kerb. His eyes narrowed and he absently patted his pocket where the keys were.

“But at least it gives us a good six months to get a good case up in your favour.” The QC shuffled papers, finishing his spiel.

Bodie swung around in agony, the words putting a finality to the whole sorry mess. Six months!

Cowley had been watching him shrewdly, paying about as much attention to the barrister as Doyle had. “I’ll give you two a couple of minute to yourselves, there are some forms for me to sign. I’ll be back shortly.”

His gaze didn’t leave Bodie's face, and he barely looked at Doyle. The door closed behind him. Doyle moved suddenly towards the window, yearning clear on his weary face as he stepped into the natural light. His forehead dropped against the glass as though he could absorb the tantalising glimpse of freedom through his skin. His shoulders twitched, as though to bring his hands around, before remembering that they were cuffed.

Bodie took a hesitant step towards him. “Ray…”

“You can’t do anything, Bodie.” Doyle spoke softly and Bodie was astonished to see a fine shiver start, until Doyle was trembling from head to foot. “Six months inside and I’m finished with CI5, no matter what the verdict is.”

Bodie’s gaze never left him. Doyle’s eyes were closed now, face tilted towards the weak light, and he was swaying on his feet. Bodie’s lips thinned and that sense of something explosive about to happen intensified. He had no idea what he was going to do but Doyle wasn’t going back. Acting on the same sort of instinct that kept him alive in the jungles of Africa, he made his decision on the spot.

He wasn’t going back!

He walked swiftly up behind his partner, drawing his gun. Despite his exhaustion, Doyle’s sixth sense was still ably functioning, and he instinctively started to turn. Bodie was faster though and the butt of the weapon took Doyle precisely and expertly on the back of his head. Bodie skilfully swivelled him around before he could fall, bracing the lax body against the window with his own.

“Sorry, sunshine,” he stooped slightly and pushed his shoulder into Doyle’s midriff, “but it’s for your own good.”

The barrister’s head shot up from his paperwork in alarm, eyes widening. Bodie staggered only slightly as he adjusted Doyle’s dead weight across his shoulder, shifting him so he jack-knifed down, keeping his left arm snug around Doyle’s thighs. The barrister’s mouth opened and then abruptly closed again as he found himself staring straight down the muzzle of a revolver 357.

Bodie’s face was lethal as he straightened up. “Now we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.”

 

***********

 

Malcolm Bowen-Carter QC would never know for certain afterwards, whether his life had actually been in danger or not. He had been quite aware of the powder keg the agent Bodie had become during the course of the day, and he certainly wasn’t immune to Doyle’s state of health either. From a professional point of view he was also unhappy with the six month remand, and judging by his condition after just five days, was acutely aware that his client was quite likely not to make it back to trial. His case had been thwarted every step of the way by more than one source and he suspected quite strongly that there were outside influences hindering the entire case. Therefore he made no threatening moves and did exactly as Bodie told him.

He opened the doors of the interview room and kept his back close to the coldly controlled, dark haired man behind him. The two courtroom security men were already moving quickly backwards, registering the gun, unsure of what to do. He saw George Cowley appear out of nowhere behind them, almost as if it were staged and heard him shout; “Don’t be a fool!” Although whether it was to the guards or Bodie, he wasn’t certain.

“He’s not going back!” Bodie snarled, and Bowen-Carter nodded vigorously, not sure who he was addressing but determined to agree regardless. All he knew was that he was being prodded by the gun and no one argued with a man with a gun, no matter which side of the law he was on.

“And for the record, it wasn’t his idea, it was mine. So if no one stops me, no one will get hurt.”

Bowen-Carter agreed wholeheartedly with that statement as well and then they were moving. Towards the door, towards the car park, to the light of the fading day. The defence barrister kept his hands in plain sight, as Bodie used him for a shield and sweat ran freely down under his expensive suit. He heard the commotion around him but it barely registered, and would wake him in nightmares to come. But somehow the agent, despite his cumbersome burden managed to get the short distance down the corridor to the lobby and the front doors. People scattered, small screams punctuated the air and Bowen-Carter felt the gust of rain as the front doors opened. He was next to a Ford Granada before he knew what was happening and the rear door was opening.

Then Bodie turned to him, cold, hard but his dark blue eyes were intense. “You’ve seen the evidence, you’ve seen him. He’ll be dead in six months.”

He waited and finally Bowen-Carter nodded, understanding. He made no move to escape, just watched as Bodie let his burden slide down his torso, cradling him almost gently before shoving the unconscious body clumsily into the back seat. Swearing ripely yet still managing to keep the gun trained, he stuffed Doyle’s long legs in after him and slammed the door. As he quickly inserted himself into the driver's seat, George Cowley and the security guards appeared at the steps, followed by the tall dark haired CI5 agent who had been in the courtroom. Malcolm Bowen-Carter saw him raise a gun and with a dawning horror realised that he was between that loaded weapon and the driver’s door. Then before anything else could happen, the car was gunned away, squealing tyres and roaring engine.

He stood quite still, knees shaking and his eyes turned accusingly to the head of CI5. Good God, couldn’t the man control his men any better than this. He was about to speak when he saw a brief smile flash across those rugged features and he could have sworn he saw the lips form the words good lad before Cowley abruptly turned away and walked back inside, flanked by his operative.