Chapter One

Bodie pressed the buzzer for the third time. "Come on, Doyle. What're you doing in there?" They were already pushing it--he had arrived at Doyle's flat with barely enough time to reach headquarters for the briefing, if his partner was ready to go. Which apparently he was not.

"Bloody hell." Bodie had been on the receiving end of Cowley's displeasure far too often, and didn't fancy repeating the experience. Especially when Doyle was the one holding things up. He added a fierce kick to his continued attack on the unresponsive door. Then a tingle of apprehension suddenly shot through him as he recalled the last time he'd pounded at Ray's door and gotten no answer. The memory from nearly a year ago, of finding him lying on the floor, bleeding his life away, still stood all too sharply in his mind. He clenched his teeth. Couldn't possibly happen twice...or could it?

He added a fist to his efforts.

To his immense relief, the intercom buzzed and Doyle's voice crackled through. "All right, keep your shirt on. I'm coming."

The door opened and Doyle waved him into the flat, then strode off towards his bedroom.

"Aren't you ready?" Bodie followed him, his impatience rising. It gave way to surprise when he found that a cyclone had hit Doyle's room, or at least, something closely resembling one. Clothes had been scattered wildly about the bed, chair, desk, floor--everywhere but the chest of drawers, which stood open and emptied. Doyle sat hunched at the cupboard, flinging boots, boxes, and more clothes into the room with reckless abandon. "What the hell are you doing?" As far as Bodie could tell, Doyle was fully dressed down to his shoes, and even had on his jacket.

"Can't find my muffler," Doyle replied.

A shirt flew past Bodie's head. A muffler? What did the idiot want with a muffler? For mid-September, Bodie admitted, it was a tad cold, but not that cold, and it would surely warm up as the day progressed. Must be some other explanation. Maybe Doyle felt under the weather. "Are you coming down with something?" he asked solicitously.

The clothes ceased flying abruptly. Doyle stood, staring at him with an odd, wary expression. "I feel fine," he snapped, crossing to the desk to snatch up his keys. "Forget the muffler. Let's just go."

"Ray, wait--" What had gotten into him?

But Doyle had already hurried past him, heading for the door. "Come on, Bodie. We're going to be late."

He was right.

They arrived, after a struggle through heavy traffic, at the CI5 briefing room in time to catch Cowley wrapping up his report. Bodie heard him give the usual warnings and reminders, and listened to his summary of the latest terrorist activity. The same old story, he thought wearily. It would never end. He glanced at Doyle, who leaned against the wall close beside him, arms crossed over his chest, one leg bent, his hips tilted in that unselfconsciously provocative stance he seemed to have patented. He didn't return Bodie's look; his eyes were focused intently on Cowley and the large ops board. Their boss was jotting notes on the new assignments for the various agents in the room. A few minutes later Cowley set down the chalk, rubbed his hands, and waved his dismissal. Bodie noted that neither agent 3.7 nor agent 4.5 was listed on the board.

He grinned, nudging Doyle's shoulder. "Looks like we're getting a holiday, mate."

Doyle sighed, straightening his stance. "No, the Old Man's up to something."

As the rest of the agents filed out of the room, Bodie tugged at Doyle's jacket sleeve and headed with the flow. "Come on--"

"Hold up, you two." Cowley's commanding voice stopped Bodie short of the door.

"Damn." Bodie turned around with a smile on his face. "Yes, sir? You wanted us?"

"Aye, Bodie. Doyle. Have a seat." He gestured at two chairs near the front of the room.

Reluctantly Bodie sat down, resigned to another assignment. It had been a long time since they'd gotten more than a day or two off here and there, and he didn't much care for the way the Cow had been pushing them in the past few months. What was it, three now? He glanced at the calendar behind the desk where Cowley was busy shuffling folders. Yes--three months to the day since Doyle had been certified fit for active duty. And nearly a year since the shooting. Doyle sprawled in the chair beside his, looking healthy and at ease. Either the strain of the last three months really hadn't gotten to him, or else he was simply determined not to show it. Doyle had pushed himself damn hard to get back. Too damned hard, Bodie thought, though he had never said so. And ever since they'd been active together again, Doyle had shown a stubborn need to out-shoot, out-run, out-everything everybody as if he were a good ten years younger. Which he wasn't.

"Ah, here we are." Cowley handed a file across to Doyle. "Now, then, I believe things have been somewhat hectic of late. Wouldn't you agree?"

Bodie frowned. What was Cowley up to? It was eerie the way he could read minds. Opting for the nonchalant approach, Bodie shrugged. "Nah, only the usual load of bomb-happy thugs plus your occasional solitary nutter having a go at mass murder. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Bit early in the day for flippancy, isn't it, 3.7?" Cowley looked pointedly at the clock, which had just gone ten. "Or perhaps a bit late, for you two. You seem to have missed the first part of our little briefing."

Bodie coughed and straightened in his chair. "Traffic."

"What's this about, sir?" Doyle interrupted, looking up from the folder with a puzzled expression.

"What does it look like, 4.5?"

Doyle handed the file to Bodie. "It looks like a local matter. Police in Penzance should be handling it."

"They are," Cowley replied. "We're merely offering assistance."

Bodie quickly absorbed the main points in the file. "A man was robbed and beaten to death on a hiking path. What's the CI5 connection?"

Cowley leaned back in his chair. "There is none. I'm having you to look into this matter. The victim was a friend of mine."

Bodie checked the file again. "Gregory Davis, age fifty- three, lived in Penzance where he worked as a private investigator. Widower, no kids. No other family except a brother in Canada. There's not much else."

"We worked in the service together oh, must be twenty years ago. Davis was a good man, and we've kept in touch. He retired about five years ago after his wife died--that's when he set up his own detective agency. And was doing quite well, the last I heard." Cowley leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "A man with that sort of background does not fall victim to an attack on a public footpath in broad daylight merely for money. No, there's something else at work here, and I want to know what that something is."

"Was he on a case?" Bodie asked.

"No one knows. There was no record of one in his office. But he must have been. There's no other explanation."

Doyle shook his head. "I still don't get it, sir. Why us?" He nodded at the board of assignments. "It's not as urgent as any of those ops."

Bodie felt like kicking him, but managed to restrain himself. Here they were finally getting a break in the nonstop action, a cushy number away from Town, and Doyle was bloody well complaining. Didn't he ever want a rest? It wasn't exactly a holiday, but it was damn close.

"No, it's not urgent," Cowley said. "But it is important, at least to me. Think of it as a respite. You've both been working very hard."

"Sounds good to me," Bodie put in quickly, before Doyle could protest again. He was rewarded with a scowl from his partner.

"I'm glad to hear it," Cowley replied with a slight smile, "considering that arrangements have already been made." He gave Bodie a slip of paper. "This is the hotel where you'll be staying in Penzance." To Doyle he handed a road map. "In case you have trouble finding your way about. Report to Detective Superintendent Keaton when you get in. Take as much time as you need. That will be all."

"But--"

"That will be all, 4.5."

"Yes, sir." There was a note of disgust in Doyle's tone which went unremarked by Cowley.

Bodie followed Doyle out, then scrambled to catch him up as he fairly sprinted down the corridor. "Hey--" He tugged at Doyle's sleeve, bringing him to a halt. "Where're you rushing off to?"

"Pub," Doyle snapped, shaking his arm free. "I need a drink."

"Too early," Bodie pointed out. "Nothing's open yet, you idiot." He studied Doyle's flushed face and angry eyes. "What's up, Ray? It's not as if Cowley hasn't sent us on personal jobs before."

"Well, I don't like it," Doyle said. "You saw that ops board- -there's a hell of a lot going on and barely enough men to go around, and he sends us off on some small-time investigation at the other end of the bloody country because he thinks we need a rest, for chrissakes. What does he think we are?"

"Tired?"

"Not me, mate." Doyle headed on down the corridor, though he slowed his pace.

Bodie walked alongside quietly for a while, then said, "Why do you have to push yourself so hard, Ray?"

"I'm not pushing. All I want is to do my job."

"We've been doing it. More than our share, if you ask me."

They had reached the top of the stairs, and Doyle paused to give Bodie a look of surprise. "More than our share? You're daft, mate. He's been going easier and easier on us. And you're right about the personal stuff, except he's been doin' it more often."

Bodie raised one quizzical eyebrow. "Has he?"

"You've got a short memory." Doyle jabbed a finger at Bodie's shoulder. "Susan Grant--what about her? Hanging about babysitting some frightened rich bird simply 'cause Cowley knows her mum. How many ruddy friends in trouble has he got, anyway?" He turned and started down the stairs.

Bodie followed glumly, mulling over what Doyle had said. Cowley still considered them his top team. He had told them as much, after Doyle had come back on duty. Nothing had changed. They certainly hadn't always gone on every big op before the shooting; they'd been given the easier route from time to time, same as now, to break up the action. Doyle was imagining a plot where none existed, and Bodie thought he knew the reason. Everything was different now--every time anyone gave him a hand or eased up on him, it wasn't, in Doyle's mind, done so because that was the way it had always been in CI5. No, now they eased up because he'd been shot and had nearly died. And they didn't think he could take the heat any more. Yes, that was the way Doyle would see it. But he was wrong.

They left the building, and Doyle veered off towards the car park. "Wait up," Bodie called after him. "I'm not ready for a long drive yet."

"What do you mean?" Doyle hesitated.

Bodie stretched, then rubbed at his lower back. "Need to work out a few kinks first. Feel a bit stiff from last night."

For the first time that day, Doyle smiled. "Oh, yeah? And what were you up to last night, then?"

"What do you think?" Bodie thumped him lightly on the shoulder. "Come on, what do you say to a workout? Keep it short and simple, then a nice long lie-down in the sauna. A pub lunch for afters, and then we can pack our gear and head out. Okay?"

Doyle looked thoughtful. "Doesn't sound too bad."

"Good." Bodie clapped him on the back. "Let's go work off some of that boundless energy of yours, eh?"

"Yeah, okay." Doyle smiled again. "I'm sorry if I was being stroppy earlier. You really do want a break, don't you?"

"I wouldn't mind. Believe it or not, we all have to take it easy once in a while." Even you, he left unsaid.

Doyle nodded. "Let's go have that workout then. Two out of three on the mat, loser buys lunch."

"You're on," Bodie agreed, feeling happier than he had in quite some time.

---

Doyle wondered, not for the first time, why he had let Bodie talk him into taking the coastal road. All he could see was gray; he flicked the wipers on as large fat drops began pelting the windscreen.

"It's raining," he muttered, tightening his grip on the wheel as he steered the Escort along yet another winding series of curves. Leisurely drive, Bodie had said. Get us into the proper relaxed mood, he'd said. Think of it as a holiday, he'd said. "Gonna spoil our 'holiday'," Doyle added glumly.

"Don't worry," Bodie replied cheerfully. "I checked the forecast before we left. It'll be warm and sunny by the time we reach Cornwall."

"At this rate, it'll be dark by the time we reach Cornwall."

"Nah, we'll make it in time for a late supper. 'Sides, remember what the Cow said--no rush." Bodie twisted in his seat and stretched behind it. "Which means it must be time for an afternoon snack." He rummaged through their pile of holdalls and bags, pulling out a slightly mashed package. "Want some biscuits?"

"What kind are they?"

"Crumbly," Bodie replied as he pawed through the contents. "Hang about." He found a nearly intact one and bit into it. "Chocolate and walnuts."

"No, thanks." Doyle glanced across to see Bodie stuffing broken pieces into his mouth, crumbs spewing everywhere. "Good, are they?"

Bodie grinned at him. "Delicious," he mumbled, thrusting the bag towards Doyle. "Sure you don't want one?"

Doyle waved it away. "Yeah. Eat 'em in good health." He focused on the road as another series of curves approached.

"Got a few other things here, too." Bodie dug through the back some more. "Oranges, couple of bananas, few packets of crisps, tin of nuts, carton of Swiss rolls, and a flask of coffee."

Doyle fought the urge to turn and gape at him; he didn't want to run the car into a ditch. "We'll be there tonight, Bodie!"

"Well, you never know when you're going to get stranded somewhere, do you?"

"Survival rations?" Doyle shook his head, amused at Bodie's preparedness for any and all disasters.

"Never go anywhere without 'em."

"What else did you bring--tent, maybe? And sleeping bags, in case all the hotels and B&B's in Penzance are suddenly closed up?"

"Now, there's a thought," Bodie said between bites of more biscuit. "We could've camped out on the beach. It's a wonder Cowley didn't think of it, save CI5's budget a few pounds." He paused. "Not that he should be using CI5 money on personal errands in the first place."

"No, he shouldn't." Doyle let out a sigh. "How long do you reckon he'll keep us on this job?"

"We haven't even started." Bodie yanked a newspaper from the back and folded it to the crossword. "Relax." He settled down to work the puzzle.

Relax. Doyle frowned. Bodie seemed determined to enjoy this ridiculous venture. It didn't fit. Bodie was always the one who wanted to be in the thick of things, ready to jump into the action. He hated stakeouts and surveillance jobs, he loathed legwork, he fairly frothed at the bit during babysitting ops. Preliminaries bored him; he itched to be in the fray. Which is why I worked so hard to get back to the top.

No, dammit, he inwardly cursed himself for the thought. He'd been striving to keep it pushed back. He had worked hard for himself, for his own reasons, not just for Bodie's sake. Yet he couldn't entirely deny the fears that had nagged at the back of his mind--that if he couldn't make it, if he were downgraded, he and Bodie would be given easier and easier ops. And that Bodie would quickly tire of it, Bodie would want to be in the thick of the action, that he would ask for a new partner....

Don't think it, he mentally chastised himself. We're okay- -the Cow knows I'm fit, he knows I can handle anything he throws our way, we're still his top team. So why this op--why now?

It was just a break, that was all, exactly as Cowley had said. He was working himself up over nothing. Bodie certainly hadn't thought twice about it, didn't honestly seem to mind. What if all their assignments were like this, though? What if Cowley really was planning to slowly take them off the main ops--would Bodie mind it then? Doyle knew that he would.

"Penny for 'em." Bodie's voice came soft and low.

"Hm? Oh, wasn't thinking much of anything." Doyle kept his eyes firmly on the road.

"Come on," Bodie said amiably, "I can tell, you know--you had that look in your eyes."

"Oh? And what look is that?"

"The one where you're trying far too hard to figure something out," Bodie replied easily.

Doyle knew he shouldn't be surprised; Bodie knew him better than anyone. "Trying too hard?" he repeated.

"Yeah. It's really not all that complicated, mate."

"What isn't?"

"Life," Bodie said.

Doyle suppressed a laugh. "Got it all worked out, 'ave you?" He took a quick look over at Bodie's composed face. "Right, give over, then. The secret of life, in twenty-five words or less."

"Twenty-five words or fewer," Bodie corrected.

"Don't give me that--you never even finished school."

"Nope," Bodie agreed. "But I had this drill sergeant once who was a right nutter over grammar."

"You're stalling," Doyle accused.

"No, I'm not. Told you, it's quite simple."

"I'm waiting."

"Eat well, sleep tight, and screw as often as possible," Bodie replied.

"That's it?"

"What more do you want?"

Doyle let out a long-suffering sigh. "I dunno." Then he smiled. "How 'bout, 'Eat well, sleep tight, screw as often as possible, and always get someone else to drive in the rain'?"

"Damn." Bodie grunted. "Knew I should've kept me mouth shut." He tossed the newspaper in the back. "Pull over, then."

Doyle didn't argue. "Serves you right," he said as he found a turn-out and brought the car to a stop. "You were having too much fun there."

"Was not," Bodie said as they got out to switch places. "Only managed two clues."

"Yeah?" Doyle snatched up the paper before settling into the passenger seat. "I'll just have to finish it for you then, won't I?"

"Be my guest." Bodie pulled out onto the roadway.

Doyle felt better somehow. Yes, they were still heading to Cornwall on an op they could probably handle blindfolded, but at least they were doing it together. That was the main thing, to stay together, no matter what.

He made a start on the crossword, but hadn't got more than a few words written in when Bodie nudged his shoulder. "What?"

"Look at that."

Doyle looked up. The rain had already lightened, and not far in the distance the sky was clear and bright.

Bodie grinned. "What did I tell you?"

"Bastard," Doyle said warmly. Just like Bodie to get out of driving in the ruddy rain.

"Luck of the Irish," Bodie explained.

"Half-Irish," Doyle replied. "Half-mad, too."

"What, only half?" Bodie made a tsk-tsking sound. "And I've been working so hard on that."

Doyle smiled at him, then returned to the crossword, pushing all his worries, at least for the moment, far away.

---

"And this is a brochure on Newlyn--lovely art galleries there, part of the marine school of painting, lovely views." The hotel clerk had flung a pile of guidebooks on the registration counter as soon as Bodie and Doyle arrived to check in, and now the elderly woman thrust them into Doyle's hand with enthusiasm. "Oh, you have to visit the Mount, that's a must. St. Michael's Mount--you can just see it down the coast if you look out your balcony--the little island off Marazion, it has a castle on top, very famous trading spot, lovely buildings, lovely views. Ah, and here's some information on Land's End--only nine miles away, lovely cliffs, lovely beaches, and still unspoiled. The coach leaves regularly from just up the street or you can easily take your motor. Here, take this, too--you'll want to go to St. Ives as long as you've come this far, won't you? Lovely seaside resort, that is."

Bodie tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter. Not only was Doyle taking it all in, he actually looked pleased at getting the brochures. Perhaps he'd finally taken to heart the repeated instruction to relax, and was planning to go sight-seeing. Or else he was merely being polite.

"...with an optional day tour of Falmouth and Truro--lovely harbor in Falmouth, lovely cathedral in Truro...." The clerk rattled on while Doyle nodded happily.

Bodie tapped his fingers a bit harder.

"This looks handy." Doyle waved a guidebook in Bodie's face.

"I'm sure it's all lovely," Bodie replied.

"And then there's our own little town," the clerk said, oblivious to Bodie's glower. "Penzance is a wonderful place to simply wander about in, and when you get tired of touring, you can come back to the hotel for relaxation. Let me tell you about our amenities--"

The old woman droned on. Bodie gave up his tapping to consider his next tactic. A bit of shin-kicking? Huge yawns? Take the room keys and do a bolt, leaving Doyle to his own devices? Bodie opened his mouth gaping wide and prepared to let loose.

"--and our famous cream tea is served every afternoon in the dining room."

Bodie's mouth stopped mid-yawn. "Cream tea?"

The clerk smiled broadly at him. "Our specialty, young man. A rich black tea served with our homemade scones and clotted cream, so sinfully rich that one tiny bite will put you in heaven."

"It sounds good--"

"It sounds unhealthy," Doyle said.

Bodie sighed. If he heard one more lecture on the possible state of his cholesterol levels.... "I like it unhealthy," he said with a slight touch of menace, "and I'm bloody well going to drink the stuff."

"Fine." Doyle shrugged. "They're your arteries."

"Got it in one, mate." Bodie turned to the desk clerk. "Can we have our keys, please? Ta." He snatched the room keys, grabbed his holdall and marched off to the lift.

Doyle followed, and they rode up to their rooms on the third floor. Bodie plopped his bags on the bed in his room, then checked out the adjoining door. He found Doyle pawing through the huge stack of brochures. "What did you get that lot for?"

"Reference," Doyle replied. "I like to be familiar with the territory. Have you ever been out here before?"

"Nope." Bodie picked up a map and unfolded it across Doyle's bed. He whistled. "Look at all these coves and beaches. I heard it stays warm out here this time of year. And most of the ruddy tourists will be gone. Should've packed a beach towel or two."

"Bodie, we're here to work, not have a holiday."

So much for his theory that Doyle was finally relaxing. Bodie folded the map up, dropping it onto Doyle's pile. "Can't do anything tonight." He crossed to the room's wide windows and pulled the drapes apart. The hotel stood on a steep hill overlooking the harbor; a promenade stretched along the waterfront below. The sun was setting, streaking the clouds purple and rose. "Superintendent Keaton will have gone home by now if he has any sense. I say we get some supper, have a pint, maybe take a stroll around the town to get the feel of things. We can check in with Keaton in the morning."

Doyle rose to join him at the window, leaning against the frame. "Nothing more than a sleepy, seaside tourist town."

"Sort of place where secret service agents go to retire," Bodie said. He watched the figures of people far below walking along the promenade. "Looks peaceful enough."

"Bet that's what Gregory Davis thought right before he went on his final hike."

"Yeah," Bodie said, "just goes to show--you're never safe anywhere."

"You got that right."

Doyle sagged against the window frame and closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, Bodie was struck by how weary he suddenly appeared. He swallowed hard as a tingling spread along his spine. Yeah, it could happen anywhere, all right, and anytime. Like on a lazy, off-duty afternoon, in your own flat, coming home from a few simple errands....

They had never talked at length about the shooting. A few words here, a brief conversation there--but nothing more. Bodie had tried to get him to talk about it, but Doyle steadfastly kept whatever he was feeling deep inside. And that was unusual for him, to keep his emotions hidden so well. It was pretty damned obvious, though, that he had been constantly frustrated and angry--from the way he spent every minute in hospital complaining, from the frequent outbursts of temper during the long months of post-hospital recovery--he'd been near impossible to put up with. He was angry at himself for being lax in the first place, angry with his body for tiring too easily and not bouncing back more quickly, angry with CI5 and the entire world for going on about its business without him, as if he didn't matter.

You matter to me. Bodie had tried to tell him that, but the words had never come out quite the way he wanted. So he tried instead to show him, by simply being there whenever he could, by putting up with the tantrums and the moodiness and that exhausting, over-the-top need to get back to work. It was odd, that relentless resolve of Doyle's to return to a job he had complained about often enough in the past. Was he really that devoted to CI5? Dedicated, yes. A good agent, certainly. But so devoted to doing the job that he wouldn't let such a close brush with death slow him down? It hadn't, as far as Bodie could see, even made him think twice about what they were doing with their lives.

Though it had definitely made him think twice. And then some. The image of Doyle lying there, so motionless, while the blood pooled on the carpet--it was burned into Bodie's memory. And the fear...the cold that had clutched at him, deep down ice- cold, when the world had stopped and everything had fled but the one thought: don't let him die.

Bodie looked at the man who meant more than anything or anyone to him, the one person he wanted simply to be there, to be with, to be around...no one had ever touched him like this before. But after all those months of missing the closeness they had as partners, now that they had been working together again, it scared Bodie that something wasn't right yet--that they might be drifting apart in some other way that he couldn't put a name to. He'd always felt, before, that they could be just as comfortable in silence as in speech and didn't need to talk to know each other well. Not now, though. They had talked a great deal during Doyle's recovery, about a lot of things-- everything but the shooting itself, it seemed. More recently, though, since being back on the squad, Doyle had turned quiet and inward. Doyle's silence had taken a toll on Bodie, and it was time to end it, whether Doyle liked it or not. A little digging here and there, a bit of prodding now and then, and he would eventually work to the surface whatever Doyle was trying to bury away.

"You've gone quiet." Doyle looked at him, eyes searching Bodie's face.

"I'm a bit tired from the drive." Bodie yawned and stretched.

Doyle nodded towards the bathroom. "Have a shower before we go out--might perk you up."

"What about you?"

"Oh, I'm fine." Doyle crossed back to the bed to pick up a guidebook. "I'll find a restaurant for us, okay?"

This wasn't the time to start the questioning, Bodie decided. Later. This would be an easy op, and they'd have plenty of time on their hands here. "Okay. I won't be long." He headed for the bath, ruffling Doyle's curls as he passed, and paused at the doorway long enough to catch the smile on his partner's face.

---

Chapter Two

Detective Superintendent Edward E. Keaton looked far too cheerful to be a policeman, especially one who must have been at it for many years. Of all the older cops Doyle had known during his career at the Met, only one had been truly happy all the time, and that was because he took prescription drugs in large doses. The rest, after ten, fifteen, twenty years of exposure to the streets and the filth that continuously crawled thereon, wound up bitter and depressed, and generally had a worn-down, tired-of- life look to them.

But Keaton positively beamed with good health and happiness. He must have been near retirement, late fifties or early sixties, yet he looked fit and tan, with a full head of reddish-blond hair and one of those round, ageless faces whose only wrinkles were caused by laugh-lines. He sat behind a cluttered desk in a small, cramped office, where filing cabinets vied for space with huge wall charts which looked suspiciously unrelated to police work. The one nearest Doyle's chair had a family tree mapped out on it, with the name Keaton in bold letters at the top.

"Bodie and Doyle." Keaton's voice sounded annoyingly hearty. "Irish extraction, both of you. Am I correct?" He leaned back precariously in his creaky swivel chair and locked his fingers across his abdomen.

"Er, yeah," Bodie replied. "Half, anyway, more or less."

"I'm an Englishman myself, through and through. Wrights, Browns, Williamses, Atterberrys--I see you've noticed one of my little charts, Mr. Doyle. Family history is a hobby of mine. Fascinating stuff, absolutely fascinating. We do have a minor line of Irish ancestors via Scotland, left in the 1740s for obvious reasons--have you got any Houstons or McCullochs in your family?"

Doyle stared at him. "Uh, I'm not really sure." It was not a subject he had ever bothered to question his family about. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the fewer members of his family he came into contact with, the better.

"Sorry," Bodie added. "Got some Evanses floating around somewhere, though."

"That's Welsh," Keaton replied. He shrugged. "Ah, well, never mind. We are probably all related somewhere along the line. Have you ever stopped to wonder if you might not be the sixth cousin of some poor bloke you were slamming into the pavement for resisting arrest?"

"Can't say as I have," Bodie said. "Do you do that often?"

"Do what?"

"Slam blokes into the pavement," Bodie said coolly.

"Ha." Keaton broke into a grin. "Clever lad, aren't you? But then, you're CI5." He sat up, resting his arms on a stack of papers atop the desk. "Recruited from the top of the line, eh? Come down to give the gits in the country a hand with their boot- lacing, have you? Don't think we can solve one little murder, do you, seeing as how we don't get that sort of thing around here every day like you lot, is that right?"

Doyle rolled his eyes. "No, sir. We've been asked to take a look, that's all."

Keaton studied him for a moment, then burst into a deep, rumbling laugh. "Got you, lad. Easy to stir up, aren't you?" He grinned again. "Son, I don't give two rat's arses what you do on my patch of ground--bust every shoplifter on Alderton Street if you like, hand out tickets to all the bloody tourists who park in the no-park zones, it makes no nevermind to me. It makes me happy when other people do my work, yes, indeedy." He leaned back again in his chair. "You've got one long leg to pull, you'd better watch that."

It made sense to Doyle now. Keaton was a cheerful cop because he was round the bloody twist. "I see, sir. It's just that most police don't care for interference in their area."

"Well, it's no piss out of my prick." Keaton slapped his thigh for emphasis. "Come on, we're going for a walk."

He bolted out of the chair before Doyle had time to blink. "Where're we going?" he asked, following the whirlwind Keaton out of the office, Bodie right behind him.

"Scene of the crime, man, scene of the crime!" Keaton bellowed as he strode briskly through the police station and out to the street. "Step lively, now, we haven't got all damn day!"

Doyle sighed, and gave Bodie a look. "He's a nutter," he whispered as they trod behind the flying back of the superintendent, who was cutting a swath through the early morning crowd of businessmen and women arriving for work on the main streets of Penzance.

"Makes me pine for Cowley," Bodie replied.

They kept a breakneck pace all the way down the hilly, narrow streets of the city, twisting this way and that until they reached the outskirts of town, where the land leveled off. They raced past the train station and on towards the cliffs that banked up again, curving high above the beach. Keaton came to an abrupt halt near a plain wooden signpost where the street hit a dead end. PUBLIC FOOTPATH it read in faded letters, and it pointed to a sandy trail barely wide enough for one person, which snaked its way along the cliff top.

Keaton gave them both a quick once-over. "City boys," he grunted. "Don't get out in the sun much, do you? Never mind. I expect you can manage a two-mile hike, eh?"

"No problem," Doyle said, hoping the fool picked up on the bite in his tone.

"Then let's get a move on!" Keaton clapped his hands briskly and stormed off up the path.

"Christ," Doyle muttered. He gestured for Bodie to go first. "Single file, mate--be my guest."

"Oh, no, I'm in no hurry, you go ahead." Bodie waved him on.

"Coward." Doyle smiled and took off after Keaton. "Good thing we ate a large breakfast," he called back.

"Yeah," Bodie grunted behind him. "Just wish I hadn't drunk quite so much coffee."

Doyle groaned. "Don't remind me. If I don't think about it, it'll be okay. Anyway, if worse comes to worst, there's nobody about, is there?"

"Nope. Only you, me, and the Mad Hatter."

"Terrific." Doyle trudged onwards. The path stayed close to the cliff edge, and he slowed from time to time to get a glance at the dramatic drop-off. The sheer face fell straight to the choppy blue waters below, foaming as the waves hit the rocks. Occasionally a sandy cove broke into view, where the cliffs curved inward for a brief spell. The cliff top itself was edged with a variety of long grasses and short, gnarled trees, and beyond stretched rolling land, some of it still in the hands of private farmers. At one point the public path took a detour right through a cabbage patch before emerging back by the cliff top. Doyle had never hiked anywhere like this before, and was enjoying the novelty, if not the company of the madman ahead.

He liked looking out at the ocean, with its blue-gray water as far as he could see. Land's End wasn't far from here, the farthest point one could go in England...and then the endless sea. The sound of the ocean was strong, yet calming--the call of the waves rolling towards shore, breaking and ebbing, the tides pulling and pushing against the earth, and the wind blowing freely, no tower blocks to turn the wind in on itself, it blew free and fierce and clean. That was something, too--the smell of the air, the freshness of sea spray and dew-covered grass. Clear skies above, with terns circling overhead instead of turbojets. It made a nice change, though he didn't know if he would like so much peacefulness all the time.

As they rounded another bend in the path, Doyle caught a glimpse of a tiny island jutting up ahead, maybe two miles further along, lying just off shore. He mentally ran through the guidebooks he'd pored over last night--Marazion, that was the town they were heading towards, and St. Michael's Mount. He recalled that there was a castle on the island, and that it had its own harbor. A smuggler's haunt, once. But then, all of Cornwall had been smuggling country long ago. The coves they'd passed by had probably concealed many a cargo of illicit wine or silk in those days. Now there was an intriguing history--much more intriguing than Keaton's lineage. Doyle wondered if the man had any books on local history, but decided it would be prudent not to ask. He didn't really want to get to know the Superintendent better.

"Ah, we're getting close, lads." Keaton slowed up as they approached a wider area of the path. "Yes, here we are. We had to open the path again yesterday, but naturally we had a thorough search of the spot first. Nothing."

Doyle and Bodie moved in beside him for a closer look at the undisturbed, sandy stretch of the path. "Where was he found?" Doyle asked.

To his astonishment, Keaton turned around and flung himself to the ground, and then positioned himself off to one side of the path, one leg crooked up, arms flung over his head. He lay face down in their direction, his curled-up fists not far from Doyle's feet. "Like this!" he shouted, then lay still.

Bodie made a little cough. "Very interesting." He raised an eyebrow at Doyle and whispered, "Not firing on all cylinders, is he?"

Keaton leapt up and brushed the sand off his clothes. "Davis was coshed," he announced, tapping the left side of his own head above the ear. "Bam! Snuck up on him from behind, by the look of things. Don't know what with--plenty of rocks about, but may also have had something to hand. Walking stick, that's my theory."

"Why?" Doyle asked as he walked carefully around the area, searching the ground. He didn't expect to find anything, but it gave him something to do other than fret over the state of Keaton's mental health.

"Ah, I'll tell you in a minute. Look over there, lad!"

Doyle followed Keaton's pointing finger along the coastline to the tiny island. "That's St. Michael's Mount, isn't it?" He felt pleased with himself for having read the guidebooks.

"Bloody great rock, that's what it is." Keaton kicked at something nonexistent on the path. "Yes, that's the Mount. Great big bloody tourist attraction, national trust, boring old castle up top, quaint little boring village on the bottom, overpriced tours. Town across the way is Marazion--bloody boring place. That's where he was walking from." He gazed down at the spot he had lain in. "Only made it halfway, didn't he?" He looked up. "Four miles between Penzance and Marazion--most fools take the coach over. Some tourists still know how to use their legs, though. But tourist season is over, now we just get local fools mucking about, the ones who have been waiting for the crowds to leave so they can enjoy the damn beaches in peace and quiet. Warm here through October, most years. See those palm trees?"

Doyle sighed as Keaton waved excitedly back the way they had come, to three small palms jutting out above the cliff. If this was Cowley's idea of relaxation, he had another think coming. "Yes, sir. Didn't know they grew out here."

"Well, son, they don't call this the English Riviera for no damn good reason, do they? Palm trees in England. Of course it's bloody daft." Keaton grinned. "But there they are. Tons of the damn things back in town. And flowers. Bloom practically the year round, screws up my sinuses something fierce."

Having given up on figuring out the point of Keaton's travelogue, Doyle went back to searching the ground.

"Won't find anything down there, lad."

Bodie coughed again. "There were no witnesses, I take it?"

"You take it right. Almost." Keaton waved his arms at the surrounding area in general. "Picturesque spot, isn't it? But as I was saying, the tourists were gone. The locals were busy soaking up the sun on the beaches. Not many people traipsing about on this path, right?"

"Right," Bodie echoed.

"It happened oh, six or so in the evening. Davis had been slogging about the beach at Marazion all afternoon. Rounded up a few people down there who remembered seeing him. Up and down the beach, back and forth, just meandering about for no damn good reason we could sniff out. People remembered he had a camera bag, and a pair of binoculars. Figured he was a birdwatcher and ignored the fool."

"Did he go over to the island?" Bodie asked.

Keaton shrugged. "Don't know. Nobody over there remembered seeing him. Castle is still open to tourists, but the tour guides said the traffic was pretty low."

"So nobody knows what he was up to in Marazion?" Doyle said.

"We went through his home, his office, everybody who knew him, everybody we could find in the shops over there, everybody on the beach--nothing. Davis was a nondescript, middle-aged bloke with no fashion sense, so why would anybody remember him anyway?"

"Somebody noticed him," Doyle pointed out.

"Yeah, or somebody just wanted a new camera." Keaton rubbed absently at the side of his head. "Happened Wednesday evening, right? Right. Been two days already, we've got fuck-all to work with. Even the bloody witness was no bloody help."

Doyle stared at him. "Witness?" He tried to control the sudden urge to throttle the superintendent.

"Keep your shirt on, lad. Was after the fact. Two old ladies found him lying there, locals, pair of sisters named Carter. Live on one of the farms round here, were heading into town for their evening tot of gin. Davis was still alive. One of them took off for help, other one stayed with him." Keaton gestured for them to move in closer, even though the path stood utterly devoid of hikers. "He said something to her." Keaton spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones.

Doyle and Bodie waited for the grand revelation.

"What he said was this--" Keaton paused to look around in all directions, then bent forward, leaning in towards them. "Golden kuh," he said.

At least, that was what it sounded like to Doyle's ears. "Golden what?" he asked impatiently.

"Kuh," Keaton repeated. "Like a k, or a hard c. That's as far as he got, you see, before he bought it." He drew a line across his throat. "Dead. Stone cold. Well, still warm, actually, but you get the idea. Not another syllable out of the bloke. Like he started a second word, but couldn't finish. Stupid bastard."

Doyle bristled. "He was a man, just like you or me."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure he was the nicest guy you'd ever want to have a pint with, but he wasn't much of a detective if he couldn't even give a good clue to his killer, was he?"

As Doyle started to protest, Bodie kicked his shin. "Save it, Ray."

He had to admit it was pointless to defend Davis against the likes of Keaton. "What do you think it meant, then?"

"Killer came at him from behind and the side. Maybe Davis caught a glimpse of something right before the blow. Something gold. A cane, perhaps--the tip of it, at least. Could've been trying to say 'golden cane'. Walking cane, walking stick, whatever you want, it might have been the murder weapon."

"Or it could have meant something else entirely," Bodie said.

Keaton squinted at him. "Naturally. Come on, we're heading back." He took off in a rush down the path.

Doyle shook his head and trudged after him, Bodie at his heels. "You think maybe next time we could volunteer to hunt terrorists?" he shot backwards.

"Cheer up," Bodie replied. "It's got to get better soon."

"Why?" Doyle stopped to turn wide eyes on him.

"Because," Bodie said, "it can't possibly get any worse."

"Oh, great."

Bodie gave him a shove. "Hurry up, he's getting away from us!"

Doyle picked up the chase again, not so sure that losing sight of Superintendent Edward E. Keaton wasn't such a bad idea.

---

Gregory Davis' office, nothing more than a tiny room above a chemist's along one of the town's winding side streets, had a stifled, stuffy feeling that made Doyle feel tired. It was only ten in the morning, but over-exposure to Keaton had already made him weary, and cramming the three of them into this small space was hardly helping. He sat at the chair behind Davis' desk, the only spot with a little breathing room, and waited patiently for Bodie to finish going through the last of Davis' file folders. Keaton leaned against the filing cabinet, picking at his nails.

They had already been to Davis' home, a tidy cottage perched near the outskirts of town which had provided nothing of interest. Neither did the office seem promising. Keaton's men had been over both places before. Davis was a very neat person, everything kept where it should be. Doyle had looked through the desk drawers and found only well-organized office supplies. On the desk top sat a phone, a local directory, a pad of unused paper and a pen, and a three-day-old newspaper. Doyle picked the paper up and leafed through it.

"We looked at that, of course," Keaton said.

"I'm sure you did," Doyle replied testily.

"He marked the tides. Back page."

Frowning, Doyle turned to the last page and noted the small box near the bottom where the times for incoming and outgoing tides were listed. It was circled in red. He glanced at the pen on the desk top again. Red ink. "Okay, so he was interested in the tides. Why?"

"Probably because of the causeway. Thought you'd read up on The Mount, son."

Doyle bit his lower lip and counted slowly to ten. It didn't make him feel any calmer. "Sorry, I must have missed that section."

Keaton stopped picking at his nails and waved his arm through the air, as if drawing a picture. "St. Michael's Mount. Right? Quarter-mile off land." He drew a flat line. "Causeway. Connects the Mount to the mainland, made of flagstones, 'bout four feet wide. You can walk right across to the island. But only at low tide." He made a whooshing sound, accompanied by violent hand flutters. "Tide comes in, covers up the causeway. No way over except by boat." Keaton settled back against the filing cabinet.

"I see," Doyle said, having decided that it was best to humor the man. "So perhaps Davis did go over to the island, when the tide was out. The fact that no one remembers seeing him over there doesn't mean he didn't go."

Keaton shrugged. "Perhaps he did. Anybody can go over if they want to, it's public land. Doesn't help find his killer, does it?"

"Don't know. If we can find out why he went there, maybe it will."

"He was a robbery victim," Keaton insisted. "Simple. Just a common, ordinary thug out getting his daily cash."

"And what else?" Bodie asked as he slammed the last file drawer shut and moved over to sit on the desk corner. "What was taken?"

"Wallet, wristwatch, camera. Near as we can figure, that is, seeing as how nobody around here knew him well enough to say what he had with him that day. Wallet--everybody has one, right? But there wasn't one on him, and it didn't turn up here or at his home. Camera--people on the beach at Marazion remembered seeing one. It's gone. Wristwatch--uncertain, but there were marks on his skin indicating he'd worn one, with a metal band. But whoever did it left the binoculars behind--expensive pair, too. Then there's his gun. He owned a pistol, had it registered. We haven't found it anywhere."

"Terrific," Bodie murmured.

"Wonder what he was taking pictures of," Doyle said.

"You've seen the files," Keaton replied. "No recent cases. Last one he had was what, two months back? Simple divorce thing, wife wanted some photos of the philandering husband. We checked it out. Those pictures had already been taken, developed, and delivered. Husband has been in Bermuda for the last month, he's clear. That's it. Greg Davis was retired, more or less, he wasn't exactly out pounding the pavement for business. This was his hobby."

"Yeah," Doyle said, feeling the weariness wash over him again. "You could be right. It could all be very simple. Cowley won't like it, though."

"Well, he'll just have to get used to not liking it, won't he?" Keaton straightened. "I've got other work to do, gentlemen. If you get any bright ideas, do let me know." He headed towards the door.

"Think we'll go over to the Mount, look around," Doyle said.

"You do that. Door lock is set, just shut it on your way out." With that, Keaton was gone.

Doyle let out the longest sigh he had ever let out in his life. "I need a drink."

Bodie smiled. "At ten in the morning? Is this becoming a habit for you?"

"Only under extreme duress." Doyle rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Or maybe I need more coffee instead."

"Or a nap."

Doyle shook his head vigorously. "Oh, no, mate. The day I start needing naps is the day I hang up me holster." He absently patted the gun lying snug beneath his jacket.

"Yeah." Bodie gave him an odd, slightly puzzled look, one that Doyle found unsettling.

"What's up?"

"Nothing." Bodie looked away, out the open office door, which led to a dusty hallway. "Not much of a spot to spend your last years." He gazed around the empty office walls. "No pictures, no personal mementos, same as his house. No family to speak of, no close friends. What kind of life is that?"

Doyle, startled by Bodie's uncharacteristic pondering, simply shook his head. "I don't know." Since when had Bodie bothered with such questions? He never spent much time wondering about the victims or their lives; all he wanted to know was who to track down and when to start shooting. "Someone must've cared about him. Cowley did."

"Cowley probably wrote him a letter every year at Christmas," Bodie replied. "That's not 'close', Ray." He got up off the desk corner to pace about the small space, before settling in the room's one other chair.

He looked far away, lost in his own thoughts, and Doyle felt a peculiar wrench in his gut. Bodie didn't have moods--that was his territory. But something odd had come over Bodie in the past few weeks, maybe even months. Doyle hadn't been paying enough attention, too intent on his own needs and desires, afraid to think about what Bodie wanted...or didn't want. Things would be fine for a while, and then suddenly, everything would change-- Bodie would turn distant and moody on him--and he didn't know why. Unless...Doyle shivered as a wave of fear hit him. Oh, christ--did Bodie know? Had he figured out what Doyle was feeling towards him? Doyle found himself gripping the edge of the desk and forced himself to relax, dropping his hands into his lap. It wasn't possible--he had given no clues, done nothing, said nothing--and surely Bodie would have lashed out at him the second he suspected anything.... Doyle sighed again. It couldn't be that. He closed his eyes, tired of it all, wanting only to go back to London and jump into the thick of things again so he wouldn't have to think about loving Bodie, or about anything else, for that matter.

"Do you ever wonder where you'll be then?" Bodie's quiet voice broke into Doyle's reverie, and he opened his eyes. "Twenty years from now, I mean?"

Doyle blinked, then stared down at his hands, rubbing at his fingers with his thumbs. "No."

"Never?" Bodie persisted.

"Twenty years?" Doyle repeated, actually thinking about it. "I'd be in my fifties...." He gazed dully around the barren office. Davis had been fifty-three and retired. And alone.

"If you live that long," Bodie said.

Doyle's eyes widened in astonishment. "Christ, Bodie!"

"I'm sorry." Bodie looked genuinely contrite. "I didn't mean it to come out like that." He rubbed his forehead. "Oh, hell."

"Well, don't fucking say things like that." Anger welled up within Doyle, mixed with fear as the memories from the shooting flooded back. "I'm not planning to make a habit of being gunned down, you know. Christ."

"Nobody makes a habit of it, Ray, it just damn well happens, doesn't it? Anytime, anywhere--and just because it happened to you once doesn't make you immune, either." Bodie pushed himself up from the chair and crossed to the open doorway, the farthest spot in the room from Doyle. He leaned his head against the frame.

Doyle started up, then abruptly sat down again, unsure of Bodie's mood. "What's got into you?"

"I'm scared."

"You wha--" Doyle had barely heard the choked admission, couldn't believe it. Bodie? Scared? "Of what? Of dying?"

"No." Bodie didn't turn around, didn't look at him. "Of waking up some day and not having you here."

Doyle felt more confused than ever. "Not planning on going anywhere." He rose again, this time crossing over to where Bodie stood, but before he reached him, something down the hallway caught his eye. Someone was walking their way. "Got company," he said.

Bodie lifted his head to look out the doorway. "Hell." He sighed and went to the desk, propping himself on the corner once more. "Some folks have terrific timing, don't they?"

"Yeah." Doyle wanted to say something more, but couldn't think what, and decided to let it rest for now. He waited at the open door, watching a young woman approach. She saw him and stopped, then hesitantly came forward.

She paused at the threshold. "Is Mr. Davis in?"

Doyle automatically sized her up. Early twenties, pretty but a bit on the thin side, with small, pointed features and overly large brown eyes. Her mousy, dark blonde hair hung limply about her shoulders, she had a woebegone air about her, down to the plain beige dress and matching handbag. No jewelry, no hair clips, no makeup--if she were trying to fade into the background of life, she was doing a very good job.

"I'm afraid not." Doyle waved her inside. "Perhaps we can help--please, have a seat."

She sat in the chair beside the desk, giving Bodie a narrow- eyed look. Bodie moved to the chair behind the desk.

Doyle leaned against the filing cabinet. "I'm Ray Doyle, that's Bodie. We're friends of Mr. Davis. Were you planning to hire him, Miss--?"

"Fielding. Kate Fielding." She held the handbag in her lap and clutched it tightly. "I already hired him. He was supposed to call me yesterday and he didn't--" She paused, glancing warily from one to the other and then to the door, which Doyle had left open. "Maybe I should just leave."

"No, it's all right." Too nervous by half, Doyle thought. But then, she was a young woman sitting alone in an out-of-the- way office with two strange men, so he could hardly blame her. He took out his wallet to show his ID card. "We're with CI5, in London. I'm afraid Mr. Davis had...an accident."

"Oh, my God." She put a hand to her mouth.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid he's dead."

Her big eyes opened wider; she bit one of her knuckles and shook her head. "Oh, no...that can't be...."

Bodie offered her a handkerchief, which she refused. "Do you listen to the news?" he asked. "Or read the papers?" Word of Davis' murder had certainly gone out.

"No, I never do." She looked up at him. "What happened to him? It wasn't my fault, it couldn't have been my fault--"

Doyle decided to leave the news of murder for a while, until he got as much from her as he could. "When did you hire him? There's no record of it here."

"One week ago. I asked him to keep it quiet...because I was hoping it was really nothing and if it got out I'd look such a fool, and Jack would be so angry--that's my brother. I didn't want him to know anything about it."

Bodie took the pad of paper and pen from Davis' desk and jotted down notes. "Jack Fielding?"

"Yes. This is all so awful." She went back to clutching her handbag. Then she gave Bodie a puzzled look. "CI5? But why are you here?"

Doyle considered his reply, and opted for semi-honesty. "Davis was once with the secret service. It's standard procedure to look into his death." Before she could question him further, he tried diverting her. "You said your brother would be upset-- can you tell us what this is all about?"

"I don't know...do I have to? Are the police involved?"

"Yes," Bodie admitted. "It would be best if we took you to see Superintendent Keaton at the station."

She sagged into the chair, giving out a little moan. "I didn't mean for anything bad to happen. All I wanted was to find out what Jack was doing." She looked up at Doyle. "He's been acting odd, saying things that scared me, about money and getting rich quick and never having to work again." Her nose wrinkled. "Not that he ever worked much, anyway."

"Your brother lives here in town?" Doyle asked.

"No, Marazion. Well, the Mount, actually. In the village there."

Doyle glanced over at Bodie. So Davis probably had gone over to the island the day he was killed. To spy on Jack Fielding. And perhaps Jack Fielding hadn't cared much for the idea. "What does he do?"

"Odd jobs, here and there. In the tourist season, helps run one of the boats over. That's for when the tide is in, and people need to get on or off the Mount--tourists often go over on the causeway, you see, and then get stuck up there when it gets covered over, and the only way back is by boat. It's not much of a way to make money, though. Jack never had much of anything. We neither of us did--our folks were pretty poor, and dad took off when we were young. Mum died last year." She looked back down at her handbag.

"You have a job though?" Doyle asked. It was a familiar story to him--one sibling a layabout, the other hardworking and responsible. Inevitably, there would be problems over money. The lazy one demanding loans, the other getting angry when they weren't repaid.

Kate nodded. "I work at Hodgson, Hodgson and Phelps, Solicitors. I'm a secretary." She raised her chin proudly. "Four years last spring. I'm not working this week, though--I asked for the time off because of Jack."

"What exactly has he done?" Bodie asked.

"I don't know. But a few months ago, he suddenly stopped asking for money. He always does, every week or so. Just a little to tide him over, he always says, until he gets more work, but he never does. I come to expect it. But it stopped, and when I saw him he told me not to worry about him anymore, he was set for life. I asked how, but he wouldn't tell me, just said he was working on something that would make him rich, and he couldn't talk about it yet because he didn't want to risk spoiling it. And then he got secretive and wouldn't talk to me at all anymore. He's never been like this before and it scared me something fierce that he'd gotten in with a bad lot, and was planning a crime. Why else wouldn't he talk about it?"

"Maybe it was some kind of inheritance," Bodie suggested, "and he wanted to surprise you."

"No." She shook her head firmly. "It couldn't be. We haven't got any relations with money. Our father...well, because he abandoned us, grandfather left him out of his will, and gave everything to our aunt, and she only gives us little amounts now and then. We're poor."

"Yes, all right," Doyle said. "So you asked Mr. Davis to look into your brother's affairs, is that it?"

"I only wanted to know who he was hanging about with, that's all. And Mr. Davis called me on Monday with some information, said he was going to check it out further, and then he'd call me again. But he never did."

"What sort of information?" Bodie said, still jotting down his notes.

"He'd seen Jack talking in a cafe in Marazion with an older woman, and followed her to a small B and B here in Penzance--it's called Camberwell's and it's on Adelaide Street. But he couldn't find out her name or anything else about her, and was going to work on that. There was nothing else."

"All right," Doyle said. "You've been a great help, Miss Fielding."

She frowned. "I want to know about the accident. I want to know what happened."

Great. Doyle decided it was time for the truth, even though it would likely send her into crying fits. "Mr. Davis was attacked and robbed while walking on the cliff path."

Her mouth opened wide and her face flushed, but Doyle had underestimated Kate Fielding. "You bastards!" She rose quickly, slinging the handbag over her shoulder. "You said it was an accident just to get me to talk--you underhanded bastards!" She stomped her way to the door. "My brother had nothing to do with it, and I'm not saying one more word, not to you, not to the police, not anyone." Then she stormed off down the hallway.

Bodie raised his eyebrows at Doyle. "Well, she's got some spirit after all."

"Yeah, had me fooled." Doyle cleared his throat. "Which one of us is going to tell Keaton?"

"Not me, mate. You're the one with the tact."

"Oh, ta very much." Doyle shifted. "Come on, then, might as well get it over with."

They left Davis' office building and headed down the narrow streets to the Penzance police station. Bodie waited outside while Doyle went in to give Keaton the news. It took a while, and when Doyle came back out, there was no sign of his partner. Terrific. He scanned the street while pacing in front of the station, wondering where Bodie would have wandered off to. Then remembered it had been three hours since breakfast. He checked the street again, spotted the newsagent's across the way, and headed over.

Bodie had just finished paying for his packet of cheese crackers and was on his way out. "Oh, you've finally finished, have you?" he asked, after nearly bowling Doyle over in the doorway. "Want one?" He held out the opened package while munching away on a cracker.

"No." Doyle poked a finger below Bodie's ribs. "You're gonna get a paunch someday, you know."

"Nah." Bodie glanced down at his abdomen. "Flat, that is. All it takes is exercising."

They left the shop, walking aimlessly along the pavement. "You hate exercising," Doyle pointed out.

"I know. But there's more than one way to work off calories, isn't there?" Bodie winked at him.

"Hedonist." Doyle paused when they reached the corner. "Where we goin'?"

"Camberwell's B and B?"

Doyle shook his head. "Keaton said he'd send one of his men round to check it out. He wasn't too pleased with my report, wanted to know why we hadn't simply brought Kate Fielding straight to his office for questioning. Shouldn't be hard for him to track her down, though." He scratched absently at his nose. "Last I saw Keaton, he was thumbing through one of his old genealogy books, muttering 'Fielding' over and over."

"Oh, great. He's going to draw up her family tree for her-- wonderful."

Doyle took a deep breath, inhaling the clean, fresh air of the sea. The day was warm and sunny, enough to make him feel more relaxed than he had before. Maybe he did need to take it easier. "How about walking off those crackers?"

"Hm?" Bodie's mouth was full of food.

"Take the cliff path over to Marazion instead of driving. Come on, it's only four miles." Doyle struck off towards the cliffs.

"She was right," Bodie said amiably as he caught Doyle up. "You are a bastard."

Doyle grinned at him. "I know."

"You enjoy tormenting me."

"I do. That's what mates are for."

Bodie grinned back. "And here I thought you were hangin' about with me for my wit, charm, and good looks."

"Nah," Doyle said as they neared the edge of town, "I hang about with you 'cause you're the only one who'll put up with me."

"It's mutual," Bodie replied.

Doyle came to a halt near the Public Footpath sign. He nodded at the hill in front of them, which leveled off a hundred yards or so up. "Race you to the top."

"Loser buys lunch?"

"Hang on." Doyle quickly checked the contents of his wallet. "Okay."

"Right. On three, then--"

"One--"

"Two--"

They took off up the path.

---

Chapter Three

Bodie lost.

He mulled over his defeat all the way to Marazion. It took them an hour to reach the town, and Doyle headed straight towards the beach below it. "Can have lunch when we get back," he announced.

"From where?" Bodie asked.

"There." Doyle stopped. Looming out of the ocean, St. Michael's Mount stood before them, the quarter-mile causeway bridging the gap from shore to shore.

"Just a great big bloody rock," Bodie said, echoing Keaton's sentiments. It looked fairly barren, with sparse trees and low brush dotting the steep hillside. The castle jutted from the top, an unimpressive looking structure of beige brick. And at the bottom of the Mount he could make out the small harbor with its surrounding village. "You reckon Jack Fielding's over there?"

"Don't know. Maybe."

"Keaton won't like it if we talk to him first."

"Why don't we play it by ear, then," Doyle said. "Go over, have a look around. Following in Davis' footsteps, that's all we're doing."

Bodie eyed the causeway with distrust. "Wonder when the tide comes in," he murmured as they set off across it.

It was easy going, the flagstones wide and flat and dry. Bodie didn't see any tourists about, and as they reached the island shore, he scanned the rocky beach and the deserted village streets nearby. "Bit lonely over here, isn't it?"

"Look at this--might explain it." Doyle had found a path leading up the steep hillside, and at its base stood a sign.

"'Renovations scheduled'," Bodie read. "'The castle will be closed after Sunday, 20 September, until further notice'. This is only Friday, though."

Doyle looked over the empty beach. "Maybe tourists can't read. Come on, let's check out the castle."

The path to the top was steep, narrow, and rocky, and Bodie couldn't help but wonder how anyone managed to consider this a fun way to spend a holiday. Tourist attractions rarely held any interest for him, and he especially objected to the fact that so many of them seemed to involve hiking up numerous flights of stairs or up ruddy great hills. Cathedrals, castles, ancient monuments--all required exertion, and bored him as well. "Waste of time," he grumbled as he slogged up the hillside.

"Not getting tired, are you?" Doyle called from above.

"No." Bodie very nearly wished he hadn't eaten that entire packet of crackers. He picked up his pace.

"Oi, we're there."

"Oh, yeah?" Bodie came round the final turn to find Doyle waiting for him on the wide stone steps leading to the castle entrance. "Good. Can we go back now?"

Doyle laughed. "You're impossible. Don't you want to go inside?"

"Nah. Seen one castle, you've seen 'em all."

"Not big on history, are you?" Doyle didn't wait for an answer, going on ahead.

Boring, Bodie thought as he followed Doyle into the entrance hall. They were met by a woman whose sole function was to take their money.

"It's a self-guided tour," she explained, handing them each a guidebook. "Map is on the inside front cover. Simply follow the indicated route. Gift shop is below the Garrison Room. Have a pleasant tour."

"Thanks," Bodie said less than enthusiastically. He had little patience for museums or castles or cathedrals or famous estates, nor for anything which reminded him of Mr. Frobisher, the teacher who had droned on at him monotonously about this king and that king and who succeeded who and why and even managed to make the endless battles they fought sound so mind-numbingly dull that Bodie had ceremoniously and joyfully set fire to his history text and burnt it to a crisp the evening before running away from home. History. Bah.

They walked into the first room on the tour. "Armory," Doyle announced.

"Oh." Well, that was all right. Bodie quickly revised his opinions on touring castles as he perused the walls, where a variety of muskets and swords were hung. "Nice. Hey, look at this crossbow."

"Don't touch it."

Bodie took his hand away. "Spoilsport. I wasn't going to fire it, you know." He carefully examined the swords, visions of swashbuckling movies dancing in his head. Now there was history. Pirates sailing the open seas, cargos of gold doubloons, fierce fights, cannon broadsides...he would have made a good pirate. "Do you suppose there are any cannons about?" he asked, bending down to examine a drum sitting on the floor, with a bugle laying atop it. The call to arms. He looked up when he didn't get an answer. Doyle had scarpered.

Giving out an exasperated sigh, Bodie stood, checked his guidebook, and followed the route through a series of dull rooms- -a bedroom for the lord of the castle, two dining rooms, and a small, den-like place called the Smoking Room. The place was big on heavy-looking furniture and high, wood-beamed ceilings which he paused to glance up at for a second or two before moving on. He came outside onto a wide terrace, and for the first time spotted tourists--two middle-aged women walking about together and a solitary, older man with a large backpack. Doyle stood at the wall, his back to Bodie, lounging between its crenelated top.

Bodie stopped short, suddenly struck by the view. But it wasn't the blue water of the harbor below, or the cliffs across the way, which drew his admiration. No, it was Doyle's rear end, sheathed in tight denim, and the slim hips and lithely muscled legs, all perfectly outlined as Doyle leaned over, stretching through the opening between the stones for a better view.

Gulping, Bodie took a few calming breaths. Doyle's body had affected him this way before, here and there, now and then, over the years they'd been friends and partners. The way he walked, the way he leaned against doorways, the tilt of the hips--and that air of confident sexuality he exuded as easily as breathing. It was damned hard to ignore, and sometimes he didn't. But he hadn't thought anything more about those little lapses, had never seen them as more than a flicker of attraction to someone who was off limits. Sex with his best mate was nothing more than an absurd passing thought, which he had always instantly dismissed before going off to find some willing bird to screw through the mattress.

Everyone occasionally had thoughts like that. Didn't they? Bodie sighed as he watched Doyle shift his weight from one leg to the other, hips tilting to a new slant. Everything had changed in the past year. Doyle had nearly died, and Bodie had spent every hour of every day that he possibly could watching over him, needing him to be well and whole, needing him in his life again, an inextricable part of what made his life worth living. And that was when he came to realize that Ray Doyle meant more to him than anyone else ever had before, that he wanted to always keep Doyle close. He had never told him so.

During the long months of Doyle's recovery there had been an initial awkwardness, a hesitancy between them which puzzled Bodie. It took a while for him to figure out its cause. This was the first time they had interacted over a long period of time simply as friends. The job made a difference. When they worked together day in and day out, on the streets and under stress, they related to each other almost as if they could read the other's mind. They were both highly trained and had been partnered long enough to act intuitively on the job, knowing ninety-nine percent of the time exactly what the other would say or do in any situation. Their conversations tended to be brief.

They also spent time together outside the job, but they used it mainly to relax, release the tension, have a good time. Neither one of them was big on personal revelations, and it had surprised Bodie, during the past year, to find out just how little he did know about his best mate. Childhood, family, school, their lives after leaving home--it had only come up before as a tidbit here, a morsel there. Then suddenly they had a hell of a lot of time together and nothing much to talk about. Bodie had opted for light duties during Doyle's recovery, and came by Doyle's flat nearly every evening and weekend, for simple companionship. The awkwardness stemmed from their inability to talk about anything other than birds, soccer, alcohol, and ammo. Once he had figured that out, Bodie determined to change it.

He worked slowly at it, opening up bit by bit about his own past until Doyle gradually relaxed and loosened up, eventually telling Bodie more about himself in a few months than Bodie had learned in as many years. The one subject which remained off limits was the shooting. But the general awkwardness vanished, and the more they revealed to each other the more Bodie recognized something new in his feelings for Doyle--more than friendship, more than affection. He had resisted calling it love. But it really didn't have any other name.

Yet to add the physical side as well...love was one thing, Bodie thought, and sex was quite another. You could certainly have one without the other; he'd spent a lifetime proving that. He couldn't help but wonder, though, what it would be like to have them both.

Yes, everything had changed. And now when he looked at the slim body before him, Bodie knew the attraction he felt was no longer a passing fancy.

The real question, of course, was whether Doyle would beat him senseless when he told him, or just quietly walk out of his life forever. But no...it wouldn't be that way. Bodie knew Doyle well enough to know he would do neither, yet he still wasn't ready to risk finding out precisely what Doyle would do. Someday, though, he would damn well have to tell him. Just not now.

He walked over to the wall. Doyle straightened and turned round at his approach.

Doyle smiled and winked. "We must stop meeting like this."

Bodie started, afraid for one insane moment that Doyle had read his thoughts. Then he came to his senses. Just the usual teasing, you idiot. Relax. "Sh," he replied with a finger to his lips, "the walls might be bugged, sunshine." He casually jostled Doyle aside so he could get a look over the parapet. Another terrace lay directly below, with cannons lining its walls. "Let's go down there." Turning to give Doyle's jacket a quick tug, he strode off briskly before Doyle could object.

The lower terrace stood empty of tourists. Bodie surveyed the cannons ranged along the walls, jutting out through the openings in the stone. He went up to the nearest one to run his hand along its cool metal surface. Be fun to fire one, he thought, though he doubted they were still functional. As he gazed out again at the water below, he wondered what the cannon were protecting the Mount from. Bodie frowned. Good old Mr. Frobisher would have known. Spanish Armada, maybe. There were a few things in history class which had stuck a bit. Pirates, perhaps?

Doyle strolled up, nose in his guidebook. "Doesn't say anything about them," he said.

"Guarding the place against pirates," Bodie suggested. "We are near Penzance, right?"

"Always thought that was fiction," Doyle replied. "Don't think they really had pirates around here. Just a lot of smugglers."

"Pirates, smugglers, what's the difference." Bodie didn't care to have his swashbuckling illusions shattered.

Doyle rolled his eyes. "Smugglers stayed on land, for one thing."

"Oh." So much for sailing the open seas. "Where did they get the goods, then?"

"France, I think." Doyle pursed his lips. "Saw a movie about it once, though it's a bit hazy now. Wine was the main cargo, to avoid the alcohol tax or something like that. French ships would bring the stuff over and the people here would unload the booze and hide it in the coves and tin mines 'til they could sell it off. Always had to keep an eye out for the tax men. The locals pretty much supported the smugglers, helped 'em out, 'cause they wanted cheap drink."

"I suppose if we'd been around back then, we'd be the ones trying to track 'em down, eh?" Bodie touched the cannon again. "Think I'd rather have been a smuggler."

Doyle nodded. "Always did think you understood the criminal mind a bit too well." He grinned.

"Look who's talking." Bodie grinned back. "Just plain luck that you never got nicked as a kid."

"That's true enough. Just naturally attracted to danger, I reckon."

"Adrenaline rush," Bodie agreed. "Adds that special 'kick' to life, doesn't it."

"Yeah." Doyle abruptly sobered, turning away to look solemnly at the water far below them.

Bodie wondered if he were thinking about the other side of the coin--when, despite all the training and experience in the world, they suddenly wound up victim instead of victor. Yet they kept coming back for more. So far. The relative calm Bodie had felt during Doyle's recovery had been surprisingly comfortable, and returning to the streets had been harder than it had ever been in the past. The rush had faded.

"Ray," he asked, "do you ever feel old?" He didn't know why he said it, and when he saw the look of astonishment on Doyle's face as he turned around, he wished he hadn't.

"Don't be absurd." Doyle moved away to start a slow circuit of the terrace.

Sighing, Bodie followed along. Obviously it wasn't a topic to pursue at the moment. "So," he said briskly, "what is it we're looking for out here?"

"Don't know." Doyle kicked at a pebble, sending it skittering across the wide, flat stones of the terrace grounds. "Whatever Gregory Davis was looking for."

"He was just following Jack Fielding around. Why don't we go down to the island village, see if he's there?"

"Because Keaton will throttle us if we do," Doyle replied. He headed up the steps to the main terrace.

"Yeah, well, he's a lead, and we should bloody well follow it- -" Bodie stopped as Doyle waved him back down the steps. "What's up?" He kept his voice low.

Doyle moved behind the wall lining the upper terrace, cautiously peering around the corner. He motioned Bodie to join him there.

Bodie crept up alongside and took a quick look. The two women he'd seen earlier were gone, leaving the older man alone there. The pack he'd been wearing lay open on the ground, and the fellow now held some kind of device. Bodie couldn't quite make it out from this angle. The man moved rapidly in circles around the terrace. As he turned towards them, Bodie moved back out of sight, but he'd caught a good view of the device.

"Metal detector," he whispered. He shifted carefully to let Doyle get another look.

"Isn't that intriguing," Doyle said. "Not exactly legal here, is it?"

"Not the last time I checked."

They took turns watching. The man hurriedly finished his circuit, not finding anything as far as they could tell. Then he repacked his equipment and took off for the castle proper.

Carefully staying just out of view, they followed him through the castle rooms, through the gift shop, and outside to the path leading down the hillside. Here they had to slow up, for while the old fellow seemed fairly spry, he still took his time getting down the steep, narrow path.

They came to a halt before the final downward turn through the village to the beach. "What now?" Bodie asked. "We can't hide on the causeway."

"Maybe it's time to introduce ourselves, then," Doyle said.

"How do you want to play it?"

"Travel writers?" Doyle suggested.

Bodie nodded, and they hurried on down to the beach. Their quarry stood at the head of the causeway, removing his shoes. "Hell," Bodie said as he looked out at the water. It had risen to near the top of the causeway. "Damn tide's coming in."

The old man spotted them. "Better take off your shoes if you're planning to go across."

Bodie eyed the flagstones dubiously as the water began lapping at their edges. He didn't fancy a dunking.

"It's perfectly safe," the fellow added. He pulled off his socks and rolled up his trouser legs. "So long as you don't slip off." With that he strode out onto the causeway.

"Could always hire a boat to take us back," Bodie said.

Doyle was already taking his shoes off. "You don't like water, do you?"

"'Course I do." Bodie reluctantly removed his footwear. "So long as I'm on top of it, that is." He rolled up his trousers to his knees and followed Doyle onto the flat stones.

They were perfectly dry at first, but it wasn't long before Doyle stopped. "Stand still."

The tide came flowing in, washing over the top of the causeway, water coming up to Bodie's ankles. Then it ebbed out again, leaving the surface of the flagstones momentarily clear. They quickly moved on another fifty feet before the tide returned. This time the water reached Bodie's mid-calf. "Shit," he said as he stood there waiting for it to flow out again. He concentrated on keeping his feet firmly on the stones.

The tide flowed out once more. "Go faster!" he shouted at Doyle. "I don't fancy swimming to shore!"

They were forced to stop three more times. During the final halt, the water rushed up to Bodie's knees and it took all his balancing skills to stay upright. But when it cleared again, they were finally able to reach the shore, where the old man stood waiting, giving them a round of applause.

"Well done, gentlemen. I always believe in avoiding the extortionate price of hiring a boat from the village, no matter what. I congratulate you on doing the same."

"Thanks." Bodie rolled his slightly damp trousers back down. He sat on a large rock to wipe the sand from the beach off his feet.

"I'm Mark Layton," Doyle said, offering his hand. "That's David Bentley. Might we have a word with you? We're working on a travel book called 'See England First.' Are you a tourist here, Mr.--"

"Oliver. Sidney Melton Oliver the Third." He shook Doyle's hand, then came over to shake Bodie's.

He was a skinny little guy, probably in his early seventies, with a thatch of thick white hair and thin-rimmed, round eyeglasses. His three-piece brown tweed suit hung loosely about his bony frame. What Bodie found the most peculiar, however, was Oliver's habit of thrusting his head forward on his neck--with his heavy V-shaped white eyebrows and prominent Adam's apple, he very much resembled a vulture.

Yet he seemed friendly enough. "I'm a native to these parts," he told them. "Been hiking about Cornwall and Devon for over sixty years, since I was a lad. You should call your book 'See Cornwall First'. Finest county in all of England."

"We'd love to chat with you about it, if you've got the time," Doyle said. "Over a cup of tea, perhaps?"

"Delighted to, Mr. Layton."

They made their way up the beach to Marazion, where they found a cafe serving tea and scones. Sidney Melton Oliver the Third turned out to be a talkative fellow, rattling on with great enthusiasm about the best hiking paths, the most picturesque coves and fishing villages, the most beautiful cliffs, the best places to get cream teas. Bodie dutifully pretended to be jotting it all down as Doyle asked his travel writer questions. After an hour of this, Doyle finally managed to direct the conversation to the more personal. "You seem to have a great deal of time for touring," he said. "I take it you're retired?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," Oliver replied as he sipped at his fourth cup of tea and munched on his third scone, which Bodie hoped was coming out of Cowley's budget and not theirs. "I used to teach, you know, up at Middleburg College. When I say teach, I don't mean a regular professorship, no, nothing so formal, but rather the occasional lecture, based on my expertise and experience, on a special area of history which Middleburg was enlightened enough to give some slight attention to--the field of numismatics."

Bodie frowned, then some long-forgotten piece of trivia clicked in his mind. "Coins?"

"I have spent decades studying and collecting them," Oliver said. "A fascinating hobby at which I have become quite expert. My private collection of Roman coins is one of the finest in Britain."

"You do your collecting while hiking, do you?" Bodie asked.

"Yes." He patted his pack. "Carry a metal detector wherever I go. You simply never know where something might turn up."

"What about around here?" Doyle said. "Do you think there might be coins to be found in Marazion, or out at the Mount?"

"Oh, possibly." Oliver produced an innocent-looking smile which Bodie didn't believe for one second. "But of course, only certain areas can be searched legally. The Mount is off limits, I'm afraid. National Trust property."

"I see," Doyle replied. "Tell me, have you ever run across a really big find? A hidden horde of gold, say?"

Oliver seemed momentarily startled, but recovered quickly. "Buried treasure?" He chuckled. "No, Mr. Layton, that's the stuff of fiction." He set his tea cup down and pushed his plate aside. "I've had a most enjoyable time, but I really must be going. Thank you for the tea. Good day, gentlemen."

Bodie watched him gather up his things and scurry out. "In a bit of a hurry to leave, wasn't he?"

"Definitely up to something," Doyle replied.

"Coins...." Bodie mulled over Davis' final words. "Gold coins. Golden 'k'...golden coins?"

"What, you think he bashed Davis with his metal detector?"

"Make a handy weapon, that."

"Why would his dying words be 'golden coins', though?" Doyle asked. "He probably would have said, 'metal', or 'old guy' instead."

Bodie leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. "Well, what else begins with a 'k' or hard 'c' sound, then?"

"Kate?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't make sense with the 'golden' part. Might make sense if she were a blonde, or wore gold jewelry or something. Go on, have another stab at it."

Doyle's brow creased in concentration. "Cave...cove...cabbages and kings."

"Creep," Bodie added, feeling silly. "Um, kid...cap? Maybe it was a juvenile."

"Who managed to waylay an ex-service man?" Doyle said. "No, I don't think so." He picked up the scone he'd been eating and nibbled at its edges. "Um, let's see...cake...crumbs...coffee pot...canine...."

"The dog did it," Bodie replied. They both laughed. "We need a dictionary." He stared up at the ceiling. "Ketch. Kerb. Kettle."

"Carpet. Cash. Coat? Someone wearing a gold-colored coat?"

"Should keep an eye out for one," Bodie said. "What else?"

Doyle rubbed his chin. "Cat...comb...car...castle...." He raised an eyebrow. "Castle...golden castle--"

"It's beige," Bodie said.

"No, wait. Gold, castle--" Doyle dropped the last remnant of scone on his plate and whirled on Bodie. "Gold in castle. Not 'golden', gold in."

Bodie stared at him. He brought his arms down and sat up straight. "You could have something there. Davis wasn't necessarily giving a clue to his killer, but to why he was killed."

"Buried treasure," Doyle said. "The stuff of fiction."

"Right. Except that I doubt our friend Oliver was scouring the grounds over there for a dropped cufflink."

"You'd think anything valuable in the castle would have been found by now, though," Doyle replied. "Or it would have to be very well hidden."

"We'd better tell Keaton about Sidney Melton Oliver the Third." Bodie shoved his chair back and stood. "Don't know how it ties in with Jack Fielding."

"He might have caught Oliver snooping round the island with his metal detector, and threatened him into talking about the gold."

"If there really is gold hidden there. We're jumping to conclusions, Ray."

"No, just trying out theories. Fielding could've demanded a share. Then Davis starts spying on him, finds out what's going on, and Fielding decides to take him out."

"Not our friend Sidney?"

"Didn't strike me as the murderous type." Doyle rose, picking up the bill. "Who's getting this?"

"You are. I'm buying lunch, remember?"

Doyle scowled. "They're bloody expensive scones. Lunch isn't going to cost this much." Nonetheless, he dug through his wallet to pay for it.

"Charge it to Cowley," Bodie suggested. "That's what I'm going to do."

"Yeah, yeah." Doyle made sure he got a receipt. "You think he'd reimburse us for a pint or two?"

Bodie considered. "Before or after lunch?"

"How about during?" Doyle said. "That way we can add it onto the meal receipt and it might slip past as a legitimate expense."

"See? I was right," Bodie replied as they headed out of the cafe, "about our mutual ability to understand the criminal mind."

"Isn't criminal," Doyle protested. "Merely...slightly underhanded."

Bodie smiled. "I like that."

They hiked off towards the cliff path. Slightly underhanded...well, Bodie thought, it never hurt, when tracking down criminals, to possess a devious mind, to be able to think the way they did. He wondered, as they reached the path and started the trek back to Penzance, what Davis' killer had been thinking as he walked along this same path. Stop Davis from returning to town...why? Because he'd seen something through those binoculars of his? Or overheard something he shouldn't have? Or both. So the killer had followed him along the path, caught up to him at a lonely stretch, and bashed his skull in. With what? Finding the murder weapon would be a tremendous help. Except that it could be as simple as picking up one of the rocks strewn along the way. The killer had probably tossed it over the side of the cliff afterwards. Nothing down there but water. Or he could have used something else and tossed it over...and maybe it would eventually wash up in one of the nearby coves...surely Keaton would have searched them, though.

They neared the spot of the murder, where Bodie stopped. "Ray, did you get a good look at the police report?"

"Yeah. Why?" Doyle came up beside him at the cliff edge.

Bodie pointed downward. "Did they search below the cliffs?"

"Not that I recall. Nothing there but rocks."

"Any beaches near here? Or coves? Anywhere something could wash up?"

"Could be," Doyle replied. "Hang on." He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the hiking map he'd taken to carrying with him. "Let's see--there's a few places where the cliffs aren't as sheer, where you can get down to some of the coves."

Bodie looked over his shoulder. "Is that one?" He jabbed at a jagged, dotted line near their current location.

"Yeah. Looks like the closest spot we can get down. Should be about twenty feet ahead." He folded the map away. "You really think we'll find anything?"

"The killer could have tossed the weapon over. I say it's worth checking."

"Thought you'd had your fill of climbing today."

"I have," Bodie said glumly. He walked on up the path, scouting for the right spot. Doyle was right--when he stopped twenty feet along and looked over, the descent was not as steep. Between the rocks snaked a rough passageway, leading down to a sandy stretch of shore.

They carefully wended their way down, half-slipping and sliding in spots, but finally making it to the bottom without bodily harm, though their clothes came away a bit ragged. The sandy cove pushed deep into the cliff face, its beach scattered with boulders. They made a systematic search, Bodie taking the left side, Doyle the right, working from the wide opening to the narrow rear where the cove met cliff face. Bodie was very near to concluding he had torn his jacket sleeve for no good reason when Doyle called out.

"Over here!" Doyle waved him to a clump of rocks near the cliff wall.

Wedged between them was a camera bag, open and empty. A wallet lay on the sand nearby. "Well, will you look at that." Bodie knelt to take a closer look. "Both pretty damp. Been in the water a while before coming ashore." He carefully used one finger to flip the wallet open, not that he really needed to worry about destroying prints on something that had been in the ocean for a day or two. He squinted at the ID photo inside. "Davis, all right. Got anything we can put these in?"

"No," Doyle said. "Use your jacket--it's shot anyway."

"Think I could charge a new one to Cowley?" Bodie took it off and wrapped it round the bag and wallet, tying the sleeves for a makeshift bundle. He made a final circuit of the cove. "No weapon." The killer probably had simply used a rock. "Guess you can't have everything."

"Never mind." Doyle nodded at the bundle. "Should make Keaton's day, that. Tossing evidence over the cliff--who'd have believed it?"

"I would," Bodie replied as he eyed the rocky ascent. "There's one aspect of the criminal mind I don't have an understanding of."

"What's that?" Doyle asked.

"Stupidity." Bodie shifted the bundle to one hand and began to climb.

---

Chapter Four

"My, haven't we been busy." Detective Superintendent Keaton peered at them from between two towering piles of books on his desk. The camera bag and wallet lay in what little space remained there; Bodie had taken back his jacket.

Keaton picked the wallet up and opened it. "Grained leather is a very poor surface for retaining fingerprints. Did you know that?"

"Yeah," Doyle replied, instantly irritated. From his seat, he could barely see Keaton. He craned his neck for a better view. "I did know that. Anyway, it's been in the water, prints will've washed off." He'd come into the office determined to behave professionally and not become annoyed, but Keaton wasn't making it easy.

"Of course they've bloody well washed off, son--why do you bloody well think I'm handling the damn thing?" He pulled out a wad of soggy bills. "Twenty-three quid. Now, most robbers I know tend to take money when the opportunity presents itself. Who do you suppose would want to kill poor Mr. Davis if they didn't plan to rob him, hm? Our friend Jack Fielding? Or your friend Oliver?"

"Have you brought Fielding in?" Bodie asked.

"We can't find the bastard." Keaton poked around more in the wallet, then set it down. "But we will, we will. His sister wasn't terribly cooperative."

"You brought Kate in for questioning?" Doyle could well imagine her mood after their little encounter.

Keaton looked inside the open camera bag. "Damn right I did. Wouldn't say a thing." He tossed the empty bag aside and glared through the book stacks at them. "Except to express her displeasure at your methods. Do you always handle potential witnesses with such aplomb?"

Act in a professional manner.... Doyle gritted his teeth. He glanced at Bodie, who glowered back at Keaton. "We handled it the best we could, sir. I think she told us all she knew."

"Which wasn't a hell of a lot," Keaton said. "Davis saw Jack Fielding having lunch with an older woman. Big effing deal."

"Did you find out who she is?" Doyle asked patiently.

"Camberwell's Bed and Breakfast is small," Keaton replied, "and has only one guest at this time. So yes, we did find out who she is. Haven't yet met the lady, however, as she is out for the day, mucking about looking at ruins. Amateur archaeologist, apparently, or that's what she told the landlady. Been here a fortnight. Name of Jewell. Margaret Jewell."

"Jewell?" Doyle repeated. "Jewell--gold, golden?"

Keaton tapped his fingers on the desk top. "Son, if Davis knew his killer's surname, he'd bloody well have said it, not made some sort of cryptic reference just to leave us a bloody great puzzle."

Doyle strove to maintain his composure. "Thinking out loud, that's all. Sorry."

"You were talking out loud," Keaton said. "Thinking is what you do in silence. Keep it that way in future."

Doyle didn't reply, for fear of making things worse. He looked at Bodie, who had a smirk on his face and was obviously trying very hard not to laugh.

"Now, then," Keaton continued, "Margaret Jewell does not speak much with her landlady. What we have gleaned so far is that she comes from Devon and was widowed last year. Her husband had a dairy farm which she is currently running. No mention of children. Mrs. Jewell is in her late forties, dyes her hair, and has tasteful but inexpensive clothing. She drives a blue Volvo. She has very regular habits and should, according to our esteemed landlady, be back at six this evening for supper, a meal for which she has been joining the Camberwell family. One of my men will be waiting for her return, and will question her about Jack Fielding. You two can spend the rest of the day and evening any damn way you please, but I'd better not see you within a hundred yards of that B and B. Have I made myself understood?"

"Thought you wanted our help," Bodie put in.

Doyle waited for the explosion. It didn't take long.

"Help?" Keaton flung his pen across the room, where it bounced off a filing cabinet. "Of course I bloody well want help! What I don't want is you two getting in the damn way and pissing the damn witnesses off and coming up with half-baked theories about damn buried treasure. Gold in the castle, for chrissakes. Have you two been drinking?"

Not yet, Doyle thought. But damn soon. "I think this Oliver character bears checking out."

"Why? The old fart was probably searching for coins accidentally dropped by other bloody tourists. There's no gold buried on St. Michael's Mount. Where the hell would it have come from?"

"Smugglers?" Bodie offered.

Keaton stared at him. "Nobody smuggled gold, son. Wine, brandy, silk. Why the hell would anybody smuggle gold into England? You must have been home ill the day they covered Cornwall in your history class."

Doyle smiled. About time he stopped receiving the brunt of Keaton's irritation. Bodie failed to offer more suggestions on the Gold Theory.

"I guess we've settled that, then, haven't we?" Keaton said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do." He reached to grab the top book off one of the piles.

They left the station and ambled off towards their hotel. "It's past lunch time," Doyle pointed out. "Want to eat in the hotel dining room? You could try out their cream tea."

"Got a better idea," Bodie replied. "It's warm, it's sunny-- why not have a picnic lunch? Could pick up a few things at the grocery, find a nice bottle of wine, grab one of the blankets from our rooms, and go down to the beach."

Doyle liked the idea. It was quite warm, and getter warmer. There didn't seem much point in carrying on with the investigation today. They'd done everything they could and Keaton didn't want them doing more. This wasn't exactly his idea of the proper way to work on an op, and despite Cowley's injunction to take it easy, he couldn't quite believe that afternoon sunning on the beach was what their boss had in mind. Still, unless something new cropped up, they might as well take it easy whatever way they pleased. "You going to work on your tan?" he teased, poking Bodie in the ribs. Few in CI5 could compete with Bodie in the pale department.

Bodie looked down at his own body. "Why change what's already perfect?"

Privately, Doyle couldn't agree more. But he merely smiled and walked on.

---

The beach stretched below the steep, hilly streets of Penzance, wide and flat along the harbor, then narrowing where the cliffs loomed up at the edge of town. They took pains to avoid the most popular section, and after hiking a bit, they lucked onto a secluded cove. The afternoon sun hit the sand full force there, while a soft ocean breeze drifted along the curving rock walls that sheltered the spot. Bodie spread out the lightweight hotel blanket, pulling off shoes and socks before taking up his position on it.

Doyle did the same, and then grabbed the large sack containing their provisions, lining the items up neatly on the blanket. Fresh-baked bread, a chunk of cheddar, salami, paper napkins. "Did you bring a knife?"

Bodie produced a dinner knife. "Nicked it from the hotel dining room."

"Criminal mind," Doyle replied. "You nick any butter while you were at it?"

"Sorry." Bodie deposited a few foil-wrapped squares onto the blanket. "All they had left was margarine."

Doyle wouldn't have been surprised to learn he'd stolen the wine as well; it was a rather expensive bottle. "Corkscrew?" he asked.

"Didn't need to steal that." Bodie pulled out his pocket army knife and found the requisite tool. He set to work on the wine while Doyle fixed up the sandwiches.

Bodie rummaged in the sack, retrieving two plastic cups. "Thought of everything, didn't I?" he said as he poured out the wine.

"Yeah, including saving a quid or two." Doyle took his wine and handed over a sandwich. "Bet this didn't cost as much as a restaurant meal."

"Not quite." Bodie smiled and raised his cup. "A toast?"

"To what?"

"To getting out of London." Bodie touched his plastic cup to Doyle's.

Doyle sipped at the wine. "I suppose this is all right for a while. Wouldn't want to live anywhere this small, though. Too slow-paced." He picked up his sandwich and attacked it with gusto. He was starving.

"Oh, I don't know," Bodie said slowly between bites. "Some days I think I could get used to a slower pace in life."

Doyle nearly choked. Bodie? Slow-paced? He managed to recover his composure. "One week of this and you'd be round the bloody twist, mate. I know you."

Or at least, he thought he did. Lately, Bodie had been downright unpredictable. His wanting to come out here on this op in the first place without protest had been unusual, and now there was all this talk of taking things easy, getting away from the streets of London. Then there were his odd questions earlier today--asking him where he thought he'd be in twenty years, asking him if he ever felt old. Just what had gotten into Bodie? He couldn't possibly be tired of CI5. Bodie craved action, had spent his whole life in one high-risk pursuit after another. No, it had to be related to the shooting, there was no other explanation. It must have shaken Bodie worse than Doyle had realized. But he was the one who had nearly died, and he was damn well ready to do the job again. If Bodie was worried about him, then he was wasting his time.

Doyle quietly finished eating his sandwich, and drank his wine. With the warmth of the sun beating down and a full stomach, he began to feel drowsy. "Going to have a lie-down," he announced. He bunched his jacket into a makeshift pillow and unbuttoned his shirt. As he slipped it off, he caught Bodie staring at him. "It's too warm," he said, adding the neatly folded shirt on top of his jacket before settling down, stretching out on his back with his arms behind his head. He wriggled his toes as a breeze wafted past. "There's no one around, you know. Could probably go starkers if we wanted."

"Oh, no," Bodie replied, "not if we want to go on living. Can just see Cowley's face when he opens the paper. 'CI5 men caught nude bathing on public beach'."

"Give him an attack, that would." Doyle smiled at the image. "This feels good, though--try it. Get out of that ruddy poloneck, you must be sweltering in there."

Bodie went quiet, and Doyle shrugged and closed his eyes, enjoying the warm air tickling over his bare chest. A few moments later he heard a soft rustle, and opened one eye to see Bodie pulling off his top. Good. Too modest by half, Bodie was, when it came to clothing. Covered himself up far too much. Doyle watched him fold the poloneck into a pillow and turn over, lying face down on it. Bodie rested his head on his folded arms, face turned towards Doyle. The watchful gaze disturbed Doyle; he looked away, closing his eyes against the sun.

Bodie.... Doyle thought about the man lying beside him, and how he had changed this past year. And how he had changed. He didn't really want to think about that, but found he couldn't help it. His relationship with Bodie had been so different during those long months when he was regaining his strength. They had spent so much time together doing nothing more than talking. He had learned a lot about the man to whom, for many years, he had entrusted his life. The sense of closeness he felt with Bodie intensified. And with it, old longings resurfaced, feelings he thought he had buried once and for all. At first he put the desire he felt down to simple lack of female companionship, and as soon as he was well enough he headed out to the nearest bar to pick up a bird for the night. And the next night, and the next.... But he quickly realized the emptiness of such "companionship", and found it didn't satisfy. He stopped going out as often, preferring Bodie's company. Yet he still wanted more, something solid he could hold onto. Another Ann, perhaps...but that thought had not lasted very long. He knew that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Bodie.

It was wrong.... Doyle had thought he'd convinced himself, a long, long time ago, that the past didn't matter, that he had never been guilty of any wrong--and yet he couldn't free himself completely from the boy he had been, no matter how hard he tried. For whenever he thought about wanting Bodie physically, all the old, painful memories flooded back unbidden.

Fourteen years old, fooling around with his best friend...he and Davy had grown up together, been next-door neighbors. They had played together, gone to school together, gotten into trouble together. And when they grew older and their bodies began changing, they wound up experimenting together. Nothing more than some harmless fun, a bit of mutual education--or at least, that was the way Doyle viewed it until the afternoon when his father came home unexpectedly and caught them at it. Drunker than usual, he had first thrown Davy out and then beaten Ray literally to within an inch of his life. The broken cheekbone, skull fracture, and cracked ribs landed him in the casualty ward, and after making it through surgery he spent another month in hospital. On his release he was sent to stay with an aunt and uncle in another town, and he never saw his friend again.

He had buried it all as hard and as deep as he could. The last thing he wanted was to have those memories come back now, to still allow himself to be affected by them. But he wanted to tell Bodie how he felt, and found that he couldn't, that the very thought of telling him twisted his stomach into knots. The past still held power over him, and he had no idea how to fight something so intangible.

Doyle wondered if Bodie was still watching him, and felt a tingle along his spine at the thought. He opened his eyes to glance over. Bodie's eyes were narrow slits, and Doyle couldn't quite tell if he was looking at him or not. Feeling abnormally self-conscious, Doyle shifted to roll over onto his stomach and resettled, head turned away from Bodie.

He lost track of time as he drifted in and out of a fitful doze. He allowed the sound of the waves to lull him towards sleep, only to encounter unpleasant images--of his father's furious, reddened face, of the hospital ward--they tugged at him sharply, keeping him from the oblivion of slumber. As he stirred and shifted about, he heard movement beside him. Doyle turned his head and looked up at Bodie, who sat propped on one arm, gazing down at him with a worried face.

"Why so restless?"

"Don't know," Doyle lied. "Can't seem to relax, that's all."

Bodie moved closer. "How about a bit of massage, then? Loosen up those muscles."

Before Doyle could protest, Bodie's hands were on his shoulders, gently kneading them. The firm, smooth strokes were instantly soothing, putting a quick end to Doyle's resistance. He relaxed into the touch, allowing the strong, supple fingers to ease his tension, relishing the contact. After thoroughly manipulating Doyle's shoulders, Bodie massaged his neck briefly, then moved on to his spine, alternately rubbing and caressing the taut muscles on either side.

"Um," Doyle murmured, luxuriating in the contrast of strength with gentleness.

"Good, is it?"

"Um-hm."

Bodie moved ever downward, keeping up a rhythmic, circular stroking. When he reached Doyle's lower back, a flicker of arousal passed through Doyle's groin. Christ... He mentally wished Bodie to leave off that area, though he dared not say anything aloud. A few moments later Bodie finished with Doyle's lower back and stroked slowly up to the top. The danger was past.

The massage ended all too soon. Doyle contentedly mumbled his thanks and rolled over onto his back, shading his eyes with his forearm. Bodie sat cross-legged beside him with a distant, far- away expression. "What are you thinking?"

Bodie blinked. "Hm? Oh, I was just thinking about you and me."

Doyle felt a lurch in his gut and struggled to stay calm. Surely he didn't mean--no, of course he didn't. Probably had to do with Bodie's inexplicable desire for the slow-paced life. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you and me and the work we do." Bodie looked away. "I find myself thinking about the odds more and more," he said softly. "The longer we stay out there on the streets, the less likely we are to come back in one piece."

"But you get bored if you have to sit on one spot for more than an hour," Doyle replied. He raised himself up on his elbows. "You're not seriously saying you'd be happy with less than the top assignments?"

Bodie looked at him, the expression on his face unreadable. His hesitation in responding stretched out uncomfortably. Doyle couldn't believe Bodie was serious, and the more he talked about taking it easy, the more confused and irritated it made him feel. Especially after he'd worked so damn hard to get back on the squad. "Well?" he prompted.

Bodie sighed. "Yes," he said. "I'm serious."

The irritation gave way to anger. "Since when?" Doyle just couldn't believe this. "Since the shooting? Is that it? Since I came back? Why--don't you think I can cut it anymore?"

"No, let me explain--"

"Don't fucking lie to me, Bodie. You're worried that I'm going to screw up, aren't you, that you'll have to watch every bloody move I make. Well, I can handle myself just fine, you won't be in any danger because of me--"

"Will you shut up?"

The utter outrage in Bodie's voice shocked Doyle into silence.

"I am not worried about that," Bodie said. "You've spent the last three months proving to everybody in the whole damn world that you're one hundred percent and then some--gone out of your way to prove it. You're just as good as you ever were, and I haven't for one second been worried about who's watching my back. But yes, it does have to do with the shooting--christ, Ray, it is the shooting. Don't you understand, I almost lost you. I don't ever want to feel like that again." He abruptly rose and strode off down the beach. He stopped, staring out at the sea.

Doyle lay there, stunned. Why hadn't Bodie said any of that before? How long had he been keeping it all inside? He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. What had Bodie said that morning, back in Davis' office...that he was scared of waking up some day and not finding him there. Doyle shook his head. Of course he knew Bodie cared about him, but he was talking about changing his whole life because of him. Bodie needed to be active, he couldn't be happy without it--he had to be mad to think he could. And Bodie didn't form strong attachments to people for that very reason--he didn't want anyone changing his life, he needed to keep control of it. Bloody hell, surely he didn't mean that much to Bodie. It didn't make any sense.

Of course, on the other hand, Bodie meant that much to him, so why shouldn't it work both ways...except that it was different for him. Doyle had a habit of forming strong attachments. He did, in fact, love the contrary bastard. And it was a love that couldn't possibly be returned. Or could it? Doyle closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, Bodie was still standing out there.

He slowly got to his feet and walked across the sand. He came up beside Bodie, crossed his arms against his chest, and looked out at the ocean. "The reason I worked so hard to come back," he said carefully, continuing to stare straight ahead, "was because of you. I did it for us, for the partnership. I was afraid that if I didn't make it back to the top, that you wouldn't want to go down with me. Cowley would put me on all the slower ops, and you'd be bored out of your skull in no time. I thought you'd want out, want to be in on the big stuff, either alone or with a new partner. And I couldn't stand the thought of not being with you, and that's why I drove so hard." He paused, looking down at his own bare feet. He wasn't used to making speeches, and certainly wasn't used to making confessions. It wasn't easy for him to tell Bodie how much he needed him. "If I'd known how you felt...about not wanting to be in the thick of things any more...oh, christ." It was too damned ironic--him pushing harder than he ever had to do the job, for Bodie's sake, and all the while Bodie didn't want it. He let out another sigh and looked back out at the water. "All those months we spent talking, finally getting to really know each other well, and we damn well forgot to say the most important things."

"I guess we did," Bodie said. "For one thing, you're an idiot."

Doyle looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." Bodie's eyes were smiling as he said it. "I would never work in CI5 with anyone else. Even if they demoted you to the ruddy file room, I'd be right there beside you."

"But I didn't think--" Doyle stopped, caught short by the open tenderness of Bodie's expression. "Since when did you start caring so much?" he asked, his voice in danger of breaking.

"Ever since I figured out I loved you," Bodie replied. Then he turned and walked back to the blanket.

Doyle stared after him, until his mind started working again, and then he hurried across the sand. Sinking down onto the blanket beside Bodie, hope and fear struggling within him, he said cautiously, "Just how do you mean that?"

Bodie picked up his poloneck and pulled it on. "How do you think?"

He looked directly at Doyle, and Doyle saw the fear in Bodie's eyes and realized that he was as scared of admitting anything deeper between them as he was. "I don't know," he said, unwilling to be the first to take the plunge.

Bodie studied Doyle's face for what seemed a very long time. Then he reached out to brush his fingers gently across Doyle's cheek. "Don't know why I let you get to me." He smiled, letting his hand drop. "Too stubborn by half." He turned away to grab the sack and began stuffing their leftover food into it.

Doyle knew the potential moment for confession had been lost, Bodie's cleaning-up efforts effectively changing the mood. They had both been on the verge, though, he sensed that. But uncertainty and fear forced them to hold back. Maybe it simply wasn't meant to happen. After all, to love Bodie the way he truly wanted to would be mad.

He picked up his shirt and put it on. "Don't think I know much of anything else," he said.

"About what?"

"Jobs. Work." Doyle finished buttoning his shirt and stood to tuck it into his jeans. "If we really don't stick to what we're doing, then what are we going to do for a living?" He bent to snatch up his jacket, shaking it out.

"Hadn't thought that far," Bodie replied. He stood to help Doyle fold up the blanket. "Figured you were so set on staying on the squad, that it was hopeless even trying to talk about quitting."

"Don't want to quit," Doyle said as they slowly ambled up the beach. "He may be a ruthless bastard at times, but I like working for Cowley."

"Yeah, he's not bad," Bodie agreed. "Guess we'd better have a little chat with him. Maybe he'll think of something for us other than the file room."

"No more ops?" Doyle asked. "You want totally out of that?" It seemed strange to think of truly leaving the streets. He felt strong and fit--in better shape, even, then he'd been in before the shooting. Sitting behind a desk held no appeal.

Bodie nodded. "We've both been hurt too many times, Ray. I'm tired of it." He came to a sudden halt, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd hear myself say that."

"Never thought I'd hear you say it," Doyle said. "Bodie, are you sure? Are you really sure? It's not simply a job you're talking about changing. It's your whole way of life."

"Yeah, I know it is." Bodie started walking again. "I knew all along, in the back of my mind, that it would have to end sooner or later. Just didn't think it would be quite this soon."

"No." Doyle thought back to Bodie's earlier questions. "I don't feel old, you know. Want to keep doing something where I get to move around."

"Well, I don't think Cowley will put us in the CI5 Senior Agents Home," Bodie said.

"Neither do I. Maybe we shouldn't worry about it too much, at least not 'til we're done here, okay?"

"Okay."

They reached the promenade along the main part of the beach, and turned to hike up the steep streets to the hotel.

---

Chapter Five

Bodie dropped the blanket in the hallway near his door. "Don't think I want to sleep with the sand," he said before going inside.

Doyle followed him, crossing to the adjoining door. "Gonna have a quick wash," he said, disappearing into his own room.

Too close, Bodie thought as he sank onto the bed, rubbing his eyes. He had never been so near to saying it...hell, he had said it, had told Doyle he loved him. And had managed not to say anything more, not to admit he wanted to make love to him, that it wasn't merely friendship. He was such a bloody coward. Doyle wouldn't have punched him out for it, he could see that. What was he so afraid of then--rejection? He sighed. Doyle had been just as tentative, fishing for the truth but not willing to come right out and ask. Bodie couldn't tell how Doyle felt about it at all, or if he had even guessed the entire truth. They were both running away from the whole question just as hard and as fast as they could.

Stupid, Bodie chastised himself. Ask him, tell him, do something...or it's going to go on for bloody ever. Too stubborn by half. Yeah, well, Doyle wasn't the only one. They could grow white-haired and wrinkled by the time they decided to stop waiting for the other one to confess first.

Bodie sat staring at the dull hotel room walls, at the lifeless pictures put up for decoration. Boring. He got up and pulled a chair over to the windows, and sat looking out at the promenade and the ocean beyond. The late afternoon sun made its slow progress down the sky, and one small boat bobbed on the water, heading into the harbor. Slow pace. He thought about what Doyle had told him, about why he had worked so hard to stay on the squad. Because he thought I'd be bored by ops like this. Bodie knew it would take time to get used to a new life. But he had no doubts about the rightness of it. Not only because he couldn't handle seeing Doyle hurt that badly again, but because he didn't care for the possibility of Doyle going through the same hell he had gone through. He knew Doyle cared about him just as deeply.

Could Doyle love him as deeply? Bodie didn't know. He was damn well going to stop acting the coward and find out.

As he turned towards the adjoining door, the phone rang. Hell. He reluctantly picked it up. "Bodie." Better be important.

"Keaton here. I need you two, now. Be outside the hotel in two minutes, with your guns. You did bring guns, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but--"

"Quiet, son, and listen to me. Two of my constables have cornered Jack Fielding in a building, and he may be armed. They're not. I'm short of manpower and you two are well trained for this sort of activity, so get your damn arses down there, now." He rang off.

Bodie stared at the receiver. "Bastard," he muttered, slamming it down. When he looked up, he saw Doyle leaning in the open doorway.

"What's up?"

"Grab your holster, mate. We're going on an adventure, courtesy of Detective Superintendent Keaton. He's trying to bring in Jack Fielding." He smiled. "And he's having a spot of trouble."

"Oh, and he wants our help, does he? Few hours ago he couldn't wait to see the back of us."

"They only love us when they need us," Bodie replied. He unlocked the case he'd been keeping his gun in and slipped the shoulder holster on.

Two minutes later they walked out the main hotel door in time to see Keaton roaring down the street in a huge, battered four- door. He brought it to a screeching halt in front of them.

"What the hell is this?" Bodie asked as they climbed inside.

"American," Keaton said as he took off. "Oldsmobile."

Old is right, Bodie thought as he listened to the car's various rattles and clanks as Keaton navigated the streets at top speed.

"Where's Fielding?" Doyle asked.

"Holed up inside an antiques store. Big place on the edge of town, been closed up this past year, old guy who runs it took ill. Fielding worked there one summer, knows it well."

"And how did he wind up there?"

Keaton shrugged. "We've been watching for him at a car park in Marazion, he pays for a space there by the month. When he turned up, my men moved in. Don't think they did anything to spook him, but he bolted anyway. They followed him over here, finally trapped him in an alley near the store. Guess he knew how to get inside, 'cause that's where he went. One of my men spotted a glint of metal under Fielding's jacket, said it looked like a gun. Didn't want to take any chances." He'd reached the edge of town and turned down a road lined with warehouses and furniture stores. "Should be close--yeah, there they are."

They pulled in behind a police car parked near the entrance to a large, rambling wooden building. A uniformed man stood by the car, watching the front door of the place. Bodie got out and looked up at the weathered lettering. Oltman's Antique Emporium. The two-story building was as weathered as the lettering, the paint peeling from its wooden walls, cracks showing between many of the boards, the few tiny windows boarded over haphazardly. There was a smell of mildew in the air. He wrinkled his nose. Terrific. A musty old building jammed full of dusty junk--that would go over well with his sinuses.

Doyle came up beside him. "Looks like it ought to be condemned."

"Should still be stable," Keaton replied. "More or less." He waved the constable over. "Report, son."

"Yes, sir," the young man said. "Suspect went in by this door about half an hour ago. I've been watching it since, and Constable Perkins has been at the back exit. No other doors. Two floors inside and an attic, no basement."

"How do you know that?" Bodie asked.

"Man who owns the warehouse across the street came over to see what was going on. Said he'd been inside the place often, he's a friend of Mr. Oltman."

"You hear anything in there?" Keaton asked.

"No, sir."

"You sure he didn't run right through and out the back before Perkins got there?"

"Don't think so, sir."

"Okay, son, you stay right where you are. I'll take the rear, Perkins will stay on the outside. You two take the front. Ground floor, first floor, attic, front-to-back sweep." He reached inside his coat to