---

CHAPTER TEN

Full of the joys of spring, Bodie sprinted up the stairs, taking them two and even three at a time, breezed along the corridor and burst into the--for once--quiet sanctuary that was the squad room. The room's only occupants, Doyle and Lake, eyed Bodie's noisy and overenthusiastic entrance with sinking hearts.

"Good morning!"

Lake closed his eyes and fell back into the tatty, threadbare waiting-room reject. Doyle just winced and covered his ears with his hands.

"I see that The Times has reported the first spring cuckoo." Bodie refused to lower his voice.

"You read The Times?" Lake said disbelievingly.

"Nah," Bodie conceded, and then admitted wryly, "Heard it on the radio on me way in."

Taking possession of the chair next to Doyle, he leant over to take a generous swig from Doyle's coffee cup. "By the way, thanks for last night, mate." Bodie winked and then drained the last of the coffee. "I do wish you'd remember that I like sugar in mine," he complained, as he pulled a face.

"Then I suggest you buy your own--and while you're at it you can get me another one," Doyle said placidly.

"Is this the thanks I get for getting you out of a sticky situation--some people have no gratitude." Bodie's voice suggested that he was sorely wounded by his friend's response but the smug grin on his face declared that it was not so.

"You enjoyed yourself then?" Doyle asked.

For an answer Bodie collapsed back into his chair and sighed mightily.

"I take it that means yes."

"And then some," Bodie said happily. "Any time you get stuck in that sort of situation I'll be only too pleased to help you out."

"She didn't mind?"

"Mind! Five minutes after I arrived she'd forgotten what you looked like. How did it go with the delectable Delia?"

Doyle echoed Bodie's own smug, satisfied sigh.

When Doyle had asked him if he had any plans for last night he had been both pleased and disappointed. It had been almost two months since Doyle had moved into his own flat and in all that time he had only met his partner socially once, and after having spent virtually every minute of the preceding three months in his company, Bodie had felt the loss keenly. But it wasn't Bodie's company Doyle had been asking for. It seemed that Doyle had finally broken through his reserve and was making steady progress through the lives of several young ladies simultaneously.

Bodie recognised that he had been--temporarily anyway--dethroned as the top Romeo in the department, but he was gracious in his defeat and when Doyle requested his assistance was only too pleased to step in, thus the tricky situation of two beautiful young ladies waiting to be escorted to two different theatres at opposite ends of Shaftesbury Avenue at the same time had been resolved.

"What was the play like?"

"Play?" Bodie frowned. "Dunno, wasn't really paying much attention to what was happening on stage." He smiled as he remembered what he had been paying attention to.

"It wasn't the pink silk lacy dress with the rosebud bra?" Doyle demanded to know.

"Bra--what bra? She wasn't wearing one, mate. She doesn't need one--anyone could see she doesn't need a bra, and no it wasn't pink...more a backless, frontless mini diamante evening...strap. Beautiful," he finished. Behind him, Bodie heard the door open and as soon as he saw the look that flashed over Doyle's face he guessed who had come in. He was right.

After pointed saying good morning to Bodie and Lake, Day moved past Doyle, knocking against his chair as he went to collect a drink from the vending machine.

"Anyone got any change--this bloody thing won't take fivers."

Out of habit, Bodie and Lake dutifully checked their pockets and found them lacking the correct coins.

"Here you are," Doyle said silkily and slid the coins across the table.

"Er...ta very much," Day mumbled ungraciously, and fed the money into the slot. The machine still refused to produce anything and the reject button was punched rather forcefully. It refused to refund the money as well.

"One of the coins must have been bent," Doyle suggested, his face bland.

Day flushed and thumped the side of the machine; Lake and Bodie were unsuccessful in their attempts to keep their faces straight.

As Lake moved to answer a ringing telephone Day continued his efforts to make the machine cough up something.

"Doyle--it's for you."

Whilst Doyle talked on the phone, Day gave up the battle of man versus machine and left the room in disgust.

Bodie watched, a worried frown marring his face as Day slammed the door shut behind him and then he looked over to where Doyle was still talking quietly.

Lake saw the frown and wondered if Bodie had heard any tales that Day had been carefully repeating to selected ears throughout the department.

"He hasn't taken to Doyle, has he," he ventured, unsure of how far he should stick his own neck out.

"What? Who?" Bodie dragged his attention back from watching his partner.

"Day," Lake said. "He doesn't like Doyle very much, does he?"

"Day's a prick!" was Bodie's bald statement.

"Agreed," chuckled Lake, but then he sobered and decided to make sure Bodie knew what was going on. "But he still doesn't like Doyle--and he's making waves!"

"What do you mean?" Bodie was suddenly intent on his answer, recognising the carefully regulated voice and bland facial expression which meant that Lake was deadly serious.

"He's being very careful but he's chucking a lot of muck around and all of it's hitting your mate." Lake hesitated. "I take it he's not said anything to you?"

"He's obviously got more sense than I credit him with," said Bodie grimly. "What's he saying then?"

"Nothing specific, just general shit-stirring. He's been a bit vocal on how Cowley seems intent on ruining CI5's reputation by employing people with dubious backgrounds and..."

Lake hesitated again and Bodie had to prompt him to finish. "...and he's been suggesting that Doyle got himself...involved...mixed up...sort of...sort of..."

"Sort of what?" Bodie asked, wondering what the hell was coming next.

"Oh christ!" Lake stared down at the table top. "That Doyle put himself about...that he made life easier for himself by letting some of the other inmates..."

"Letting some of the other inmates what?" Bodie demanded, his voice a cold, chilling whisper of sound.

"Fuck him!" Lake spat out, then shut his eyes and waited for the roof to fall in. After a few minutes, during which the world continued turning and Doyle's voice was the only sound in the room, Lake risked opening his eyes and started breathing again.

"Nothing specific!" Bodie repeated. "How specific was he, for fuck's sake!"

"Look, Bodie, I just thought that if you didn't know, you ought to--I can't see either Cowley or Doyle being too pleased if they hear what's being said," Lake said defensively.

"Okay, okay." Bodie backed down, holding his temper in check. "How long's this been going on and where's he getting his information from?"

"Last few weeks he's been spouting off about Doyle's drug connections--ever since he started on the big drugs caper. The blokes are working quite close to some of Doyle's old drug squad colleagues."

"Has he blown Doyle's cover? None of the Met. boys are supposed to know that he's clean."

"All right, he's a prick," Lake whispered back. "But he's not got that much of a death-wish. He knows Cowley's orders over Doyle's record but it's not stopped him from fishing for any more dirt on the man."

Begrudgingly Bodie found himself agreeing; Day was not that stupid.

"The rest of it--how does he know about that?"

"It's true?" Lake's eyes widened in surprise and Bodie knew he had been careless.

"What do you think?"

Lake's eyes swivelled around to watch as Doyle continued talking and laughing into the phone.

"With his looks he wouldn't've found it easy. Being an ex-copper they would have jumped him every chance they got. Between the hard boys and the faggots he wouldn't have much peace--but I don't think he would have given in--not without one hell of a fight--"

Just then Doyle turned towards the window and the sunlight shone directly on his face, highlighting the misshapen cheekbone. Turning back, Lake saw that Bodie had followed his eyes and his thoughts. "So it's not true. Not Day's version of it anyway," he finally worked out. "So what did happen?"

For a moment or two Bodie wondered whether he should tell Lake the whole story, but quickly realised that it was not his story to tell; but he had to counteract Day's malicious tongue, so he told Lake what Doyle's life inside had been like, outlining only briefly the sexual harassment, the anti-police antagonism and the final, attempted sexual attack that had been very nearly murder.

Listening to Bodie's cold recital of facts, Lake knew that a lot of the story was missing but his own knowledge of prison society, learnt through the years of contact with the dregs of humanity that populated the prisons and criminal world, fleshed out the tale.

"What's going on?" Doyle's voice took them both by surprise. Seeing the startled and embarrassed looks he chuckled. "God, you two look like you just got caught with your hands in the biscuit jar!"

Lake and Bodie smiled awkwardly.

"Look, mate," Doyle said eventually, when he realised the two men were not going to let him in on their conversation, "are we doing anything?"

"Now? No, just standby--why, what's up?"

"Nothing much, just I've got to go somewhere. That was Bob Craig from the Home Office; he wants to see me about something before he goes off on leave tonight."

"You might as well shoot off now. Take your r/t and if anything comes up I'll collect you on the way."

---

Sod's Law, of course. Barely five minutes after arriving at Craig's office the r/t crackled into life. Leaving the room at a trot, Doyle had a large flat package thrust into his hands.

"They're yours," Craig shouted down the corridor after him. "You left them in your drawer in one of the recreational rooms."

In the car, ignoring the puzzled look on Bodie's face, Doyle shoved the portfolio onto the back seat and promptly forgot about it as they took off from a standing start to 60 mph in thirty yards.

---

After a hectic start, though, the excitement quickly died down and a monotonous surveillance routine started up.

A simple toss of a coin won Bodie the opportunity of trying to get some sleep in the back seat of the car.

"One day," Bodie complained as he struggled to squeeze his length onto the back seat, "the Cow is going to let us have state cars with collapsible seats."

"Or even reclining chairs with posture springs," Doyle chipped in, flexing his back and shifting his own position.

"Ah, the simple pleasures of life," Bodie said with feeling as he settled onto his side, shoving the portfolio away from his face, its awkward shape causing it to fall right back and hit him on his nose. "What's in this thing anyway?" he snapped irritably as he pushed and shoved it sideways where it finally came to rest on his knees.

"Just some stuff Bob Craig gave me, that's all," Doyle said vaguely, his attention suddenly taken by a movement at one of the windows as if someone was trying to look out into the street. They were parked a safe distance away, the house's occupants wouldn't be able to see them.

"Come in, 4.3," Doyle spoke into the handset.

"4.5," crackled back in response.

"Anything moving back there?"

"Upstairs bedroom light's just gone out, I reckon Sunny Jim's off to bed. Why? What's up your end?"

"Twitchy curtains in the front bedroom but no lights," Doyle said, his attention still on the front of the house.

"Okay, 4.5, we'll keep our eyes peeled. Out."

The r/t clicked off and the car fell silent until Bodie's voice came from the back seat.

"Did you draw these?"

"What?" Doyle spun round in his seat to find Bodie lifting sheets of paper from the portfolio and holding them up to the dim street lighting.

"They're not bad," Bodie said approvingly as he flicked through the sketches.

"Just put them back!" Doyle made a snatch for the sketch pad but missed as Bodie held it just out of reach. Perhaps unwisely, Doyle lost his temper. "Just leave them alone, they're nothing to do with you--now give 'em here!"

"What's so special about a few little scribbles then?" his partner taunted.

Pride made Doyle speak out in defence of his work.

"They're not scribbles and they're mine, now get your greasy mitts off them!" Leaning right over into the back seat he managed to grab his pictures and shove them untidily back into the case, swiftly tying the cords, closing it.

"4.5, 3.7, he's coming out the back way, over." Even before 4.3 had finished speaking, Bodie was back in the driving seat, the engine was on and they were pulling smoothly away from the kerb. The chase was on and the sketches were forgotten.

---

Dawn was breaking as he dropped Doyle off outside his flat, the order from Cowley being to get some sleep before reporting back for another hopefully less hectic surveillance detail. As the door clicked shut, Bodie remembered the sketches but managed to stop himself from jogging his touchy companion's memory.

---

Fresher but still exhausted, Bodie dried himself off and shrugged into his dressing gown. Pouring himself a drink, he carried it and the portfolio over to the couch and sank down onto it. Undoing the ties, he carefully tipped the contents onto the seat beside him. Looking at the water colours and the one oil painting, Bodie could quite understand why Doyle hadn't wanted anyone to see them. They were awful! Ugly blotches of wrong shades in peculiar positions all over the paper. Next, he turned to the sketches he had first seen in the car. There were three pads, two of which had something drawn on every page and one of which was half full.

Being unable to draw a straight line without the aid of a ruler, Bodie found he was impressed with the fresh, vividly real pictures, the simple style of lines and shading that filled each page.

Turning the pages through, he found the pictures to be disturbing and looked through the books a second and third time in an attempt to pin down the reason for the odd, hauntingly lonely feel of the sketches.

One of the last pictures really brought home to him how Doyle's isolation had affected him. It was a sketch of a brick wall. It filled the page, each brick shaded and shaped with such meticulous care that Bodie felt he had only to touch the paper in order to feel the rough texture of bricks on his fingers as easily as he could read the graffiti that adorned it.

He tried to imagine staring at a wall so long he felt compelled to draw it.

The rest of sketches were an insight into prison life. Neat, cramped cells, huge, heavy metal doors with each rivet, lock and hinge drawn in fine detail, a view along the never-ending metal landing, winding staircases, views of the outside world framed by ugly steel bars.

The detail of inanimate objects was in striking contrast to the people that were sometimes included. Always vague, always indistinct, always unrecognisable. But then Bodie noted with surprise the small portrait almost hidden away on the corner of a page. Flicking back through, Bodie found more of them, each one tucked away on the edge of another picture as if it were an afterthought, a doodle.

Instinctively he knew that this was Ann. Turning the pages, he tried to see the obvious attraction that the woman held for Doyle but the small sketches revealed only a woman's face...not an unattractive face but nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. Paying closer attention, because he was curious to find out all he could about the woman who had turned her back on Doyle when her love and support was probably desperately needed, Bodie discovered that each picture had a small flaw, something the artist never quite managed to get right. Ann's eyes were either totally lifeless, lacking in any expression or in some cases simply not finished, that final touch never--quite--being applied with the same attention to detail as appeared everywhere else.

Returning the pictures and sketch pads to the portfolio, Bodie tied it up and placed it to one side. In the morning he would put it back into the car as if he had not touched it. For some reason he felt uneasy about letting on that he had peeked. Looking through the drawings had, in a way, been intruding on Doyle's privacy--rather like reading someone's personal diary--and from the way Doyle had reacted in the car he obviously did not want people looking at his work.

With the images Doyle had committed to paper swirling through his mind, Bodie feel into a restless slumber that was filled with a confusion of hazy, mixed up not-quite-real troubling dreams...

---

The clanging doors and sound of heavy boots on metal walkways echoed back and forth through the enormous building.

He passed door after door, each one the same, each a doorway to apathy and misery, until he reached his own.

He opened it.

The cell's occupant looked up at him uninterestedly then away again. A brief flash of emerald and Bodie felt a tug of recognition.

"What's your name?" he demanded to be told.

"Doyle." The reply was begrudging and the speaker seemingly had little interest in discovering who was asking.

Swinging himself up onto the top bunk, Bodie felt tense and relaxed all at the same time. Behind the closed door the screws were getting everybody banged up. The final, loud and seemingly endless call of numbers and names finally came to an end and the lights clicked off.

In the darkness he heard Doyle climb into bed, but there was something he wanted to know before he went to sleep.

"What are you in for?" he asked. It was a bit like being in hospital, after a few hours you always knew more than you really wanted to know about the other bloke's ailments.

"Nothing--I'm innocent," Doyle replied, a deep chuckle in his voice as he said it.

Bodie joined in with the joke.

"Oh yeah--me too. It was this other bloke--honest!"

The ice was broken and they both laughed. It was comfortable...easy.

"This other bloke, see," Bodie felt the need to explain, "got himself mixed up with the wrong sort of people."

"This bloke who just happens to look, think and sound like you, do you mean?"

Bodie had known that Doyle would understand.

"That's right."

"So what did you...uh, I mean what did this other bloke do then?" Doyle corrected himself.

"This and that."

"And the other?"

"Oh, plenty of the other," Bodie chortled vulgarly. "Got himself caught up with some smugglers."

"What--contraband whisky and cigarettes?" Doyle asked; the romantic notice of the noble historic smuggler clearly appealed to him.

"No. Drugs and guns."

All at once the warmth left the small, dark cell.

"Disprins and pea-shooters, you mean?" Doyle asked coldly.

"Heroin, cannabis and Armalites." The words fell like lead weights into the silence.

"A drug pusher and a gun runner," Doyle said in disgust. "What did you do in your spare time--rape little girls?"

"No! No!" Bodie cried out in protest. "It's not like that!"

"Of course it is--you just said so. You were smuggling drugs and guns. You knew what you were doing!" Doyle accused, then started banging on the door, calling for a guard to come and let him out.

Through the darkness Bodie tried to deny his guilt but Doyle wouldn't listen, he just kept pounding on the door, demanding to be let out, calling out to anyone who would listen that he was not going to share anything with a drug pusher and gun runner, pounding and pounding until at last a key was turned and the door began to open.

"No!" Bodie shouted in desperation. "Don't go...please don't leave me...you don't understand...don't go... Ray! Ray! Ray!"


The name still on his lips and his hand outstretched, Bodie jolted awake. The darkness of his bedroom confused him and for a second he thought he was still in that cell and that Ray had gone--but then he awoke properly. Drawing his hand over his sweating face, he dropped back onto the pillow and took some deep breaths. Only a dream, he told himself with relief, only a dream that was already fading away leaving only cooling sweat and a feeling of unease.


The next day, stuck outside another moderately innocuous suburban semi for hour after hour, Bodie found he could remember every single second of his dream. For some reason it just would not fade away into the void that dreams usually conveniently faded into. He didn't, as a rule, attempt to analyse his dreams; it wasn't often he remembered enough about them to do so, but this one was different.

The awful, terrifying feeling of being left behind, being deserted or abandoned, was not new to his nightmares; neither was the knowledge that somewhere, out in the dark, someone was waiting, watching.

The cause of his unease was sitting only a few inches away dutifully paying attention to all the incredibly unenthralling comings and goings in the street. Behind Doyle, on the back seat, rested the portfolio. Neither of them had mentioned it, but Bodie had seen the speculative glance that had flared in his partner's eyes when he opened the car door earlier that morning.

But knowing the cause did not even begin to resolve the problem.

If, of course, Bodie ruminated, there was a problem. It had been nearly two months since Doyle had read his file; two months in which he had neither referred to or questioned what he had read. At no time had he given any hint as to how he felt about working so closely with a man who had been, to all intents and purposes, deeply involved in the two areas that were guaranteed to turn most men's stomachs. Drugs and guns.

Bodie sighed as a wave of depression swept over him. All his working life he had peddled life and death--legally or otherwise. What would his life have been like, he wondered, if he had stayed on at school that extra year and finished up with the 'A' levels his mother had so desperately wanted him to get.

"Oh for crying out loud!"

"What?" Jolted back to suburbia and the boring surveillance detail, Bodie looked around him in surprise.

"Oh--back with us are you?" Doyle asked sarcastically. "All that deep breathing and sighing, I thought you'd fallen into a coma!"

"Sorry," Bodie apologised lamely.

"What's up, you've had a face as long as a mile all morning?"

"Nothing, just...thinking."

"Look," said Doyle, "there's a big depression over London right now, more specifically it's sitting right over your head. Now," he repeated patiently, "what's up--and don't say nothing because it's bloody obvious that something is."

The silence was almost deafening and it stretched out for several long minutes.

Eventually, and only because he knew Doyle would not, Bodie spoke. "Look," he said haltingly, embarrassment fighting with irritation, "you're not the only one in the world to have a few problems, you know." The words were formed before he could stop them and he could only curse himself when he watched the tentative openness that showed only rarely, drain away from Doyle's face.

"Pardon me for intruding then," Doyle sniped back, his hurt feelings showing themselves by his expressionless face and eyes.

"Oh for--I'm sorry," Bodie said and turned in his seat to smile warmly, his eyes asking for...something--forgiveness, understanding, Doyle didn't know what, only that the gloom and bad feelings in the air had been banished. "I must have got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, just ignore me."

"I usually do--and whose bed was it?"

"Ahh--a gentleman never kisses and tells."

"Karen?" asked Doyle.

"Would you mind if I said yes?"

"No, of course not, why?"

"I did you a favour the other night," Bodie said, "helping a mate out of a spot of bother is what mates are for, but I thought you'd been seeing quite a bit of her, wasn't too sure if you'd take kindly to me seeing her again."

Doyle chuckled, a deliciously warm, rare sound. "Yes, I have seen quite a bit of Karen but you can, as the saying goes--have too much of a good thing--besides, I haven't the energy for Karen and Delia."

"Oh, I see, getting the cast-offs, am I?"

Laughing, Doyle agreed. The mood broken, the atmosphere in the car became more relaxed and the rest of the duty stint passed without incident.

Signing off, they left the suburban backwater to the next pair of luckless agents and made their way home.

Outside Doyle's block of flats, the remembered portfolio in his hands, Doyle looked across to Bodie.

"What did you think of them?"

Quite how Doyle had known he had looked at them defeated Bodie, but he answered cautiously, recalling the way the other man had reacted to his looking at them in the car the previous evening.

"They're...not bad," he answered noncommittally.

"I dunno what's in here myself," Doyle said as he untied the laces and poked about inside. "What the--these aren't mine."

"Thank christ for that!" Bodie said with relief as Doyle peered at the lurid oil painting and wishy-washy water-colours. "I would have found it hard to be polite about them!"

"You'd 'ave tried, would you?"

"Artists are supposed to be very sensitive about their work, I didn't want to bruise your ego." Bodie reached over and twitched one of the pads out of Doyle's grasp. "But I did like these, I thought they were quite good."

"Only quite good?" Doyle raised an eyebrow.

"Better than I could do anyway," Bodie said, refusing to bolster the artist's ego any more.

"You're right though," Doyle said ruefully as he shoved everything back into the portfolio, "they're nothing special; didn't want to do the damn things anyway," and then in answer to Bodie's puzzled look of enquiry, "The occupational therapist at the hospital kept on at me to do something creative, it was these or basketry. Then once I got back to the prison I kept it up. Something to do, I suppose."


Driving back to his own flat, Bodie decided that he would call Karen as soon as he got in. He felt in the mood for some uncomplicated relaxing company. Doyle's parting comment had left a chill that had settled deep inside. Quite innocently Bodie had remarked that it had been generous of the screws to allow Doyle, a prisoner, to sketch in the halls and along the landings.

"Oh they didn't. I can't draw from life, not even to save my life. It's one of the reasons why I gave up thinking art school. I can only draw from memory."

Bodie could only think of the graffiti-strewn brick wall. Somehow, knowing how it had been done only made it that much more horrific.

---

Closing the completed file, Dr Ross placed it on top of the others and opened the one remaining on her lap. Shuffling through the papers she then passed some photocopied sheets across the desk to Mr Cowley.

"Finally," she said, "we have the problem of the 4.5, 3.7 pairing."

Quickly scanning over the pages he had been given, Cowley spared a moment to peer over the top of his glasses.

"Is this 'problem' specific or general in its nature, Doctor?"

"Mister Cowley," Ross began, but was interrupted before she could really break into her stride.

"Doctor Ross, your persistence in giving pessimistic opinions on this teaming is becoming rather tedious." Cowley glared across the desk, daring--perhaps even willing--the psychiatrist to interrupt him. "You are the only one who doubts the success of this pairing. All the evidence to date has proved your earlier misgivings to have been wrong. To all intents and purposes 3.7 and 4.5 are adjusting well and are becoming a productive, viable unit."

"'To all intents and purposes,'" Ross quoted back. "I agree with those observations--"

"Then what is the nature of this 'problem'?" Cowley only just managed not to shout.

"Mister Cowley, I have explained before that this is not a 'single' problem, it is a mixture of events, personalities, lifestyles and past experiences. The problem is a combination of all these things but it is possible to break the facts down into specific areas."

Acknowledging that she had Cowley's attention if not his favour, Ross proceeded to state her case.

"Bodie's behaviour since joining the squad has differed greatly from the past in that he has 'allowed' Doyle to form an attachment that is more than strictly professional. He has also begun to be slightly more approachable on a social front to other members of the squad."

"In other words, he's made friends with Doyle and other squad members," Cowley summed up, cutting through the jargon.

"Yes--but this behaviour is contrary to what is 'normal' for Bodie," Ross stuck to her guns with tenacity. That George Cowley considered psychiatrists useful only when they agreed with him was a major problem that she was determined to overcome.

"In addition, contrary to what he says, I do not believe he is happy with the teaming. I still feel that he is best suited to solo assignments. Although he is sublimating the irritation of having to work so closely with another agent, the reluctance could surface at an inconvenient or even dangerous moment for both men concerned."

"Sublimating the irritation," Cowley echoed. "Well, he is doing it very effectively. Macklin and Willis are both of the opinion that Bodie is actively enjoying his association with Doyle." The reports the instructor and doctor had given earlier had been cheerfully optimistic, a direct contrast with Ross' gloomy predictions. "Bodie has been both supportive and encouraging to Doyle. Now I know you feel these characteristics are not normally present in Bodie's make-up, but the facts speak for themselves. Bodie has never been known for quiet suffering--if he found Doyle to be an irritant there is no doubt in my mind that he would say so--to anyone and everyone who would listen!"

"I disagree."

"Very well, Doctor. Please tell me why you disagree," Cowley said wearily. "But please try to be brief."

"During the assessment interviews I held last week Bodie was clearly disturbed by one specific aspect of the teaming. Never having been assigned a permanent partner before, Bodie knew that the only people in this department who knew the full details of his past working experiences were you and me. Now, of course, Doyle also knows."

From the sudden change of expression on Cowley's face, Ross knew that he was beginning to grasp the root of the problem. Bodie's past had always been a problem--to Bodie.

"And Doyle's reaction to his file has upset him?"

"He didn't say so--but then he never does; with Bodie the important things are always left unsaid," Ross said and Cowley knew just what she meant.

"You've discussed this with Doyle?"

"I did question him about his knowledge of Bodie and his reaction to what he read was what I would have expected of him. He accepted that it was in the past and that Bodie had clearly been too young and too naive to have understood what he was mixed up in. Doyle had dismissed those years of Bodie's life as being unimportant, and to have questioned him further would have aroused his curiosity and possibly created more problems for Bodie."

"I agree," Cowley said, unsurprised to find himself doing so. Bodie's overdeveloped sense of guilt was about the only facet of his personality that they ever agreed on. The eighteen months the teenage Bodie had spent drifting around the ports of North Africa and Europe were in no small way directly responsible for his deep involvement with the security services. Hired as a deck-hand, he had become a very small, but very necessary part of the illicit trading organisation between the sea ports bordering friendly and not-so-friendly countries. At seventeen, the excitement and seamy glamour given off by the crews on board the decrepit coasters and tugboats were all the incentive that the runaway had needed to climb aboard. Reality had taken a long time to filter through and by then it was too late to escape. Trapped by the lies of the older, established crew, the boy was too frightened to leave and with each trip the horror and guilt increased.

But eventually luck and a force 10 gale in the Channel forced the Algerian-registered ship into Folkestone Harbour; after that, escape had been easy. Not wishing to attract any attention to its hidden cargo the ship left, minus its deckhand, as soon as the storm abated.

It had been a casually delivered question by Cowley during the mopping up of a very messy siege-situation in the first months of Bodie's life in CI5 that had surprisingly revealed his motivation for joining first the army, then the department.

Shaken and shocked by his narrow escape, Bodie had accepted the whisky Cowley had rescued from the broken, bullet-marked drinks cupboard. An empty stomach and lack of sleep coupled with relief that it was over and he was still alive all helped to make the alcohol go straight to his head. Before passing out, Bodie had confided to a rather startled Cowley that it would have been poetic justice if he had been killed by one of the hundreds of guns he had helped to smuggle into the country.

The next day Bodie had been put through the toughest debriefing of his life. Every day of the eighteen months Bodie had spent on board, every port, every name, every date, every detail was prised out of him. Expecting dismissal and possibly even prosecution, Bodie had tried to resign but Cowley had refused to let him go. After two weeks of virtual home-arrest, Cowley had visited him with the results of the investigations.

It had been impossible to convince Bodie that he had not committed any crimes and that he was not going to punished, prosecuted or even fined. For ten years he had carried the guilt of knowing he had helped to supply terrorists with guns and ammunition, pushers and suppliers with their poisons, and profiteers and money-makers with the opportunity to get rich on human misery. He knew he was guilty and nothing Cowley said was able to convince him otherwise.

"I agree," Cowley repeated. "So I take it that Doyle realises that apart from being a very junior member of the crew, Bodie was not directly involved with the actual trafficking of drugs and arms."

"I think he understands Bodie's role better than Bodie does himself. The guilt Bodie feels about those months is the main reason--in fact the only reason--why he ever became involved in the security services. Bodie feels that he must atone for what he thinks he did--he is quite blind to the fact the other crew members must have banked on his ignorance and naiveté to keep him quiet.

"But that sole purpose is something which makes Bodie very special to CI5. Now I agree that he is not too keen on people discovering his contacts with the runners, but he has never objected to the rumours that have circulated the department about his experiences."

"That's because they are rumours. Doyle knows the truth. And that is the one thing Bodie is incapable of facing, the truth. Regardless of how you, I or even Doyle see the truth, Bodie can't bear to face it himself." Satisfied that at least one of her points had been made, Ross sat back in her chair to gather her reserves for the next round.

"Very well," Cowley said after a few minutes' quiet thought. "I concede that 3.7's attitude to his past is a hurdle but I am optimistic that as in the past it will not prove insurmountable. Now--your next point?"

"I am still unhappy with 4.5's mental state." Ross spoke firmly. "In may ways 4.5 and 3.7 are very similar in that they always seem to project an air of emotional stability, but you must agree that I am qualified to advise you on such matters."

About to refute that, Cowley subsided as he recognised that Ross was only stating the truth. "Very well, Dr Ross," he said in a neutral voice, "please advise me which aspects of Doyle's mental state disturb you."

After spending a few moments looking through her notes, Dr Ross checked to ensure she had Cowley's complete attention before starting.

"I believe your main reason for selecting Doyle was his usefulness in the area of undercover work, using his record and real identity to gain access."

"Not the main reason, Doctor, but one, yes." Cowley nodded his head, trying to follow the path she was clearly trying to lead him down.

"Perhaps it's just as well it is not the main reason then," she said smoothly, "because I doubt that he will ever, voluntarily, renew any contacts he made whilst he was in Ford or Maidstone prisons."

"You seem very sure of that."

"I am. Very sure," was the confident response. "He refuses to discuss any aspect of his life as a prisoner. He pointedly withdraws from any conversation in which prisons or prisoners figure and any attempt to coerce him into such a discussion is met with evasion, resistance, increasing agitation and on one occasion distress."

"Distress?"

"It was a few months ago now, but it was when I first realised how reluctant he is even to think about his life inside, let alone discuss it with me. He stormed out of my office, refused to continue the interview and then missed several appointments that I made to see him again. It was only when I pointed out that his continuing employment in the department depended on his co-operation that he finally, but very reluctantly, agreed to meet with me again."

"Which aspects of his life in Maidstone were you questioning him on?"

"I asked him if there was any truth to the rumours about him and Albert Kingsley."

"Just like that?" Cowley asked, appalled by Ross' uncaring attitude.

"I saw no reason to cover the question with a lot of pointless soft talk."

"And what did he say?"

"Just 'No,' but that was after he had stormed out of the office then failed to turn up for several interviews. He simply refuses to discuss the matter." Ross' voice clearly showed how unreasonable she considered Doyle's behaviour.

"Are you really surprised that he won't talk to you about it?" Cowley demanded to know. "Have you even considered why he won't talk to you about it?"

Surprised by Cowley's almost palpable outrage, Ross sat back in her chair, blinking under the onslaught of the icy blue eyes. "You're a woman!" Cowley almost shouted across the desk. "I am not in the least bit surprised that he refuses to talk to you. Have you ever had any training on counselling the victims of sex attacks--"

"Really Mr Cowley," Ross interrupted, "my training is perfectly adequate in all the relevant areas and I do know what I am doing. Doyle must talk to someone about what happened to him. Maybe the rumours about Albert Kingsley are just that--rumours, but it is an irrefutable fact that he was subjected to an extremely violent attack that was only just prevented from becoming rape!"

"The report also states that Doyle cannot recall the reason for the attack nor the men responsible for it."

"He's lying!"

The room fell silent, and the two antagonists stared across the disk at each other as they regained control of their tempers.

As the heat began to fade from the almost-argument, Cowley engaged himself in a pointless reorganisation of his neat desktop and Ross waited patiently for the next round to begin.

"Very well," Cowley finally said, "I agree that Doyle is very probably lying about the attack." The basilisk glare dared Ross to award herself any points. "But he quite clearly does not wish to discuss it with you. At this moment in time there is no need to force him to confront any of his former inmates. Should such an occasion arise we shall have to reconsider, but for now I do not see that this problem is affecting his work."

"I still feel he must be made to talk to someone about the attack, and also about the Kingsley business. The rumours are unpleasant and ugly but Doyle will neither denounce them nor admit that they are even partially true--"

"How do you know that he hasn't?"

"Pardon?"

"How do you know that he hasn't talked about it to someone else?"

"Who?" Ross asked in amazement.

"Bodie," suggested Cowley, immeasurably pleased to have rendered the woman speechless at last.

That Ross did not consider his suggestion very likely was obvious, and she spent the next ten minutes outlining exactly why she felt Bodie was ill-equipped to handle such a delicate affair.

Cowley listened and shrugged off nearly all her arguments. Although Ross felt she knew all the personal details about the men and women in her care, Cowley knew that she didn't; she knew only what he felt she needed to know--and that wasn't necessarily everything.

Eventually Ross had said all she wanted to say and Cowley had listened to far more than he had intended to, the discussion on Doyle drew to a conclusion, with the understanding that they were unlikely to reach an agreement.

Collecting her files together, Ross swept out of the office, leaving Cowley to reflect on the unsatisfactory outcome.

His own knowledge of people and personalities had been learnt through experience with only a sprinkling of official schooling throughout his varied career. Supposedly Ross was far more qualified than he to know what was going on inside Doyle's, or anyone in the department's, minds, but in this instance Cowley knew that she was wrong. Maybe Doyle did have a few problems, but Cowley knew that if this was so, Doyle would only talk to whom he wanted--when he wanted, if, of course, he had not already done so.

Pulling himself from the threshold of exhaustion that Kate Ross always left him on, Cowley gathered the necessary files for his next meeting of the day. Psychological profiles and problems were soon pushed to the back of his mind as he turned his attention onto the slow-moving but promising joint operation with the Drugs Squad.

---

Turning left off the main road into the quieter one-way system, Bodie launched into the story he had been saving all afternoon for this precise moment. He thought that he had Doyle's full attention, but when he reached the part about Cowley's reaction to finding the trouserless Murphy revealing his outlandishly speckled underpants to the Minister's wife, he realised that his audience of one was not listening.

How can you hate someone you've never met? Bodie asked himself. How can you compete with a memory? He knew what he was doing and was even angrier with himself as a result. Did he really care that every time they drove down this road Doyle went off on yet another trip down memory lane? The answer was simple. Of course he bloody did! Why else would he save all the juiciest stories and most ridiculous jokes to tell them only when he wanted to distract his partner's attention from the flats that he used to live in. With Ann, of course. Sometimes it worked. More often than not, it didn't.

When the brakes slammed on, Doyle landed hard up against the dashboard.

"Jesus!" he complained as he sat back into his seat. "Did you hit it?"

"Hit what?"

"How the 'ell should I know? Whatever you slammed your bleedin' brakes on to miss!"

"Nothing." Both hands on the steering wheel, Bodie gripped it so tightly the strain stiffened his arms up to his shoulders.

"What?" Confused, Doyle looked around them, trying to work out why they had stopped so suddenly.

"Why don't you go and knock on the door?" Bodie asked, staring coldly across the car.

"What door?"

"Hers!" Bodie jerked his head towards the block of flats and derived a small measure of satisfaction from the guilty start on Doyle's face.

"You're blocking the road," was all Doyle would say. The driver behind them began to blast away on his horn.

"Are you getting out?"

"No, now move off you mad bugger!"

"You're quite sure you don't want to get out?"

"Quite sure--now shift this bleedin' car!" The noise from the blocked vehicles was growing louder and louder and windows up and down the street were being opened. In the flats, net curtains twitched as the people who did not want to betray their curiosity tried to see what all the commotion was about. If the curtain on the third floor moved he would kill Bodie. Slowly, very, very slowly.

Feeling that he had made his point, Bodie keyed the ignition. The engine coughed, whirred and died. Doyle sank down in the seat. On the third attempt the engine sputtered into life; it did not sound very healthy, but the car moved and that was all Doyle was interested in.

They didn't talk until the front door of Doyle's flat was shut and they were both nursing drinks, trying, without much success, to appear relaxed and at ease.

Bodie broke the silence. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that," he apologised gruffly.

"No, it's me that should be saying sorry. I just hadn't realised how...obvious I was being."

"No, I've got no right to tell you to stop thinking about her--"

"Course you 'ave. It's bad enough you got lumbered with a partner you didn't want without getting one who goes all moody every time he passes--"

"Cut it out, mate, I was in the wrong and I'm saying sorry, all right," Bodie snapped back, the apologetic tone of moments ago covered by held-back anger.

"I don't believe this," Doyle said and started chuckling, then before Bodie could misinterpret his humour, said, "Are we really arguing about who can say sorry?"

The humour of the situation took a little longer to filter through Bodie's belligerence but eventually they both relaxed; disaster was averted.

"Seeing as I'm here and I'm hungry, what are you going to feed me with?"

"What did you do before you met me?"

"Spent a fortune at takeaways and endured the company of fussy but clever women who knew how to treat a growing lad with a healthy appetite."

"Yeah, but what did you do about food?"

"Pillock!" Bodie lobbed an over-stuffed cushion across the room. "Come on, let's have a butchers at what you've got in the kitchen."

Resignedly following Bodie, Doyle complained out loud. "The only reason you haven't told Cowley you want to go back solo is because you can't find anyone else daft enough to cook for you!"

"Ah!" Bodie said, and turned a pair of guileless blue eyes towards him. "You guessed."

Later on Bodie risked bringing up the subject of Ann Holly up again.

"Are you sure she still lives there--I mean, they're pricey those flats, I know you were sharing the place, could she afford to carry on living there once you'd...left?" he finished lamely.

Without looking up from the meal he had been pushing around his plate for the last ten minutes, Doyle replied quietly that yes, he was sure she was still living there.

"It's her flat, well her mother's really I suppose, so there's no rent or mortgage to worry about--but even if there was she could afford it."

Bodie looked up sharply; Doyle sounded as if he resented the fact that his ex-fiancee had no financial problems.

"Got a bit of money, has she?"

"And class and looks--what more could a girl want?"

"Money, class and looks," Bodie said cautiously. "What did she want with you then?"

"That's what her mother used to ask!" Abruptly Doyle pushed his chair back and crossed the room where he busied himself filling the bowl with hot water, bubbles and dirty dinner plates.

Conveniently ignoring the growing pile of crockery on the draining board, Bodie leant back in his chair and considered the little Doyle had told him about Ann; precious little really, considering how much time he seemed to spend in a dreamworld thinking about her.

"How close did you come to getting married?"

There was no answer but Bodie was not one to give up easily. "Long engagement, was it?" he said in a voice that held more than a hit of mockery. "Insisted on being engaged before letting you past first post? Yeah," he said knowingly, "a girl like that, good looks, classy, bit of money in the family vault--bound to have high principles."

Doyle sighed and threw the dishcloth into the bowl.

"Seeing as you're so interested Bodie, I'll tell you," he said flatly. "Maybe you should go and get a pen and paper so you can take notes, I mean, I wouldn't want you to miss any of the details."

Bodie refused to let Doyle's anger faze him. He calmly returned the angry stare.

"Too right, mate--if I'm going to get the chop because you're too busy daydreaming about the love affair of the century to watch my back properly--then I do want to know all the details. What's so special about this bird then? She can't be worth that much if she ditched you the first time the going go rough."

"Shut up!"

"--suppose you'd already been married when you were arrested, what would she have done then, divorced--"

"Shut up, Bodie!" Doyle shouted. "Shut up, you don't know anything about her, you don't know what you're talking about, just leave it, all right!"

"So tell me," Bodie said quietly. "Tell me why she's so special. Tell me why you don't just go to see her and tell her that you were stitched up?"

The silence stretched on. "Well?"

"Well what?" Doyle asked.

"Well--why don't you go and see her, talk to her?"

"No."

"Why not?" But Doyle chose not to answer; a sudden thought occurred to Bodie.

"Has she married someone else, found herself another fellow?"

"No!" Doyle's rejection of that idea was very definite.

"You're very sure of yourself. Reckon she's been pining away for you do you, saving herself for you?"

"No." The answer was just as adamant as the first but a smile tugged at Doyle's mouth as he tried, unsuccessfully, to picture Ann pining away for anyone. "But I just doubt very much if there is anyone else."

"Put her off that much did you?"

Bodie's voice was so incredulous that Doyle just had to laugh. He finally gave in to the inevitable, succumbing at last to the clever technique of his partner. He sat back down at the table after pouring them each a beer and told Bodie all about Ann.


After the beer was gone the whisky bottle was unearthed and after a short discussion on the lines of drunk driving, exorbitant taxi fares and the broken springs in Doyle's bed-settee, the two men wound up in a comfortably familiar position in Doyle's bed.

Feeling wonderfully relaxed and sleepy and just a little bit drunk, Doyle wriggled down under the covers and rearranged Bodie's hand so it didn't rest so heavily on his ribs.

"So," Bodie continued, truly puzzled by the intricacies of the tale Doyle had revealed that evening and not wholly convinced he wasn't being subjected to a monumental put-on, "that dance you met her was the first time she'd been out socially since Roger jumped off the cliff?"

"No, no, Roger was the one that drowned, Philip was the one that fell off the cliff."

"I thought Philip was the fella that jilted her." At some point during the evening the whole story had become very confused.

"No, that was Trevor."

"Let's see if I've got this right," Bodie said as he shifted his head around on the pillow, trying to find a position where Doyle's hair didn't get up his nose. "Trevor jilted her, Roger drowned and Philip threw himself off a cliff."

"Trevor didn't exactly jilt her--he just called the wedding off without saying why," Doyle explained patiently, too sleepy to object to Bodie's persistence. "Roger was drowned during a freak storm and Philip fell off a cliff by accident. Now shut up and go to sleep."

For a while Bodie considered the fate of his Doyle and the luckless Roger and Philip.

"Lucky old Trevor," he whispered softly. "I wonder what he knew that you didn't." He gave Doyle a gentle squeeze, a sudden flood of unrecognised emotions making him want to hold and protect the sleeping man, to keep him safe, happy and...

Curling up even closer to length of bare flesh, Bodie made himself more comfortable. Doyle was sound asleep, his breathing regular and soothing to Bodie's ears, his heartbeat pulsing away gently against the arm draped across his chest. Doyle, Bodie decided, was nice to hold: warm, firm, silky and supple all at once.

Floating towards sleep, Bodie found his thoughts drifting to Ann again. At one point he had almost begun to feel sorry for her but the story had become so unbelievable that he could only wonder what the next instalment in her life could be. Surely no one deserved to be that unlucky. But, if the tale was true then, Bodie decided, she deserved everything she got for treating Doyle so badly.

All night long Bodie dreamt of Ann. Weird, disjointed senseless dreams that bordered on near-nightmares. By dawn he knew that she had filled his dreaming hours, that the dreams had been unpleasant--but he couldn't recall one second of any dream.

Washing the sleep from his eyes, he decided that he never wanted to hear her name uttered ever again. So later that morning as, bleary-eyed, they both dragged their hungover heads around the local supermarket, he was totally unprepared for the way his stomach plunged and his heart missed a beat when Doyle uttered the name.

"Ann."

"Ray?" she answered, disbelieving. "Ray!"

"Hallo, Ann." His feet rooted to the spot, Doyle watched recognition dawn, surprise turn to bewilderment then, unbelievably, to pleasure.

"Ray! I can't believe it." Now over the initial shock, Ann took a second look at the man standing before her. "I... You've changed so much I almost didn't recognise you." Doyle saw her eyes linger on the most noticeable change.

"What on earth happened to your--" She raised an elegantly manicured hand to brush the damaged cheek.

"Something hit it," Doyle answered shortly, catching the hand and holding it firmly, almost afraid to let go.

"When did you get... I mean how long have you been... I'm sorry, Ray. I didn't mean to embarrass you, but what are you doing here, I never expected to--" Confusion and embarrassment warred equally and the conversation faltered and stopped.

The meeting was what he had hoped for, but now it was happening Doyle found himself floundering, his prepared speech vanishing from his memory as reality hit home hard. It was impossible to stand in front of the cooked-meats counter in Sainsbury's with Bodie on one side and the shop assistant's ears flapping on the other and tell Ann that he wasn't the criminal she thought, that he had been framed, pardoned and was now respectably employed by a very important, very secret government organisation.

Divining the nature of the problem, Bodie broke the awkward silence by introducing himself.

"Hello, my name's Bodie. You must be Ann--I've heard a lot about you." He smiled warmly and held out his hand, all politeness and formality.

A cold hand barely touched his in return and a pair of steel grey eyes reminded him that his own were probably bloodshot and his clothes looked as dirty and rumpled as they felt.

"I really must go, Ray, I'm in a bit of hurry--"

"Can we meet later, I'd like to--"

"I'm flying to America this evening, I won't be back for about a week."

"I'll call you then?" Doyle asked. After a moment's hesitation Ann answered that he could, then she was gone.

Standing in the aisle, Bodie watched Doyle watch her go before turning his mind to more important matters.

"Greenback or smoked?"

"What?"

"Bacon," he elucidated, pointing at the displayed produce. "Which one and how much? This young lady is ready to leap into action to provide you with anything your heart desires." The uniformed girl blushed until her cheeks were as red as the pimples that glowed on her chin.

The rest of the shopping was done by Bodie, Doyle seemingly in too much of a daze to think about such mundane matters. Back outside Doyle's flat Bodie sorted out the shopping, then thrust a carrier bag full towards his partner.

"That's yours and this is mine, I'll see you tomorrow morning then."

Doyle took the bag, and looked at it as if he was wondering where it had come from.

"What?" He stood on the pavement, clutching the bag of groceries to his chest and stared as Bodie threw his half of the shopping onto the back seat of his own car before getting in and starting the engine up.

"Wake up, Doyle," he snapped irritably. "I've already wasted half of the day steering you round the shops. I've got plans for this afternoon--and I'm picking her up in three quarters of an hour--so I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah, okay," Doyle agreed finally as he watched Bodie's car tear off down the road.

---

After emptying the contents of his carrier bag into the fridge and larder, Bodie quickly leafed through his address book. Carole was less than delighted with the precipitate summons.

"You could have called and let me know last night, Bodie," she complained.

"Ah, come on, Carole, didn't know myself until a few moments ago," he lied glibly.

"Well--"

"Go on!" Bodie encouraged, hearing the capitulation in her voice.

"I've only just got up, I was working until three this morning, I've just run a bath--"

"I've not had a bath since Tuesday," Bodie said longingly. "Boiler's broken," he sighed. "I hate boiling kettles to wash 'n shave," he piled the pathos on. "And they're not coming to fix it until next Tuesday!"

"Well... I suppose you could always come round here--"

"Thanks, Carole, run a bit more hot in and I'll be there in five minutes."

Driving around to her flat, Bodie tried to push the uncomfortable, niggling feeling that he was ruining the sexual anticipation he knew he should be feeling. Carole was a nice girl but... A nice girl but what? he asked himself. But he had been meaning to spend the first day off in three weeks with Doyle--not that they had arranged anything, well--nothing definite anyway.

Carole opened the door wearing, Bodie guessed, only a thigh length dressing gown and a splash of delicate perfume.

It was some time before any thought of Ray Doyle returned to disturb him and by then he was pleasantly sleepy and in Carole's bed for the second time that day. Fast asleep beside him, Carole lay, arms and legs spread with careless abandon, taking up a good two thirds of the bed. Carefully pushing the sleep-heavy body to one side, he decided that as a considerate bed-partner he would have to go a long way to find anyone as accommodating as Ray Doyle.

The thought tickled his outrageous sense of humour and he was unable to prevent a low giggle from breaking out. Pulling Carol towards him, he tidied her arms and legs up and settled down to sleep. His last thought was that Carole's neatly cut hair was neither as long nor as silky as Ray's...

---

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Drawing up outside Doyle's block of flats, Bodie parked neatly but left the engine running.

"Coming in?" Doyle asked.

"No, I've arranged to meet Carole this evening and I've just about got time to get home and change before I pick her up."

"Oh!" Doyle's face dropped. "See you tomorrow then."

"Are you doing anything tonight?" Bodie asked suddenly. "Why don't you come along too--we're only going to the pictures and maybe a meal after--I'm sure Carole won't mind."

"Well," Doyle hovered, undecided. "If you're sure she won't mind," he said, feeling disinclined to spend another evening alone.

"Of course she won't, I'll pick you up at half seven on my way to her place, okay--see you later!" Bodie waited until Doyle slammed the door before speeding off with a cheery wave.

Returning a little over an hour later through the one-way system leading into Doyle's road, Bodie, freshly washed, shaved and spruced up, found himself behind a black taxi that parked inconsiderately in the centre of the road to allow its passenger to disembark. He wondered if Doyle knew she was back.

Bodie watched the cab driver carry her luggage into the lobby of the building then storm back into his cab with a miserable face after counting the money she had so efficiently dropped into his hand. The posh voice and address had obviously led the driver to expect a handsome reward for his exertions.

Climbing back into his cab and ignoring the line of cars he had held up, the driver finally moved off. About to do likewise, Bodie narrowly missed denting his front wing when the door of a parked car unexpectedly swung open and its occupant, a tall middle-aged gentleman, climbed out totally unaware of the accident he had nearly caused. His attention obviously elsewhere, the man did not see or hear the abuse Bodie directed towards him.

Doyle was ready to go as soon as Bodie arrived but Carole was neither ready nor, as he quickly found out, in a particularly good mood.

"Really, Bodie, you could have let me know--this is the third time you've done this to me," she complained.

"I thought you liked Ray?"

"I do," Carole said. "He's a nice person, it's just that I rather thought I was going out with you, not you and your friend."

"He wanted to see the film, why can't he come and see it with us?"

"Why can't he go and see it with his own girlfriend?"

"I don't think he's seeing anyone at the moment. Look," Bodie said sweetly, grabbing hold of Carole as she snatched her jacket angrily from the hanger, pulling her close and kissing her softly, petting and gentling her. "We'll just go to the pictures with him, see the film and then drop him off at home before we go on somewhere else, okay?"

"Oh...all right, but not mmnhg!" Bodie smothered her agreement with a long, breathless kiss. "Oh, Bodie, I do wish you wouldn't do that!"

"Do what?" he asked innocently, his eyes sparkling, alight with mischief.

"You know damn well what," she retorted, laughing now, her anger almost gone. "But really, next time--just you and me--please. Just leave your friend at home."

Bodie found her persistence annoying, he really couldn't see what she was making a fuss about.

"Okay, okay, I give in. Next time I'll find a baby-sitter for my poor lonely friend," he said mockingly.

"I really don't understand why he can't find his own baby-sitter, why doesn't he have a girlfriend? He seems nice enough, why is he so lonely that you feel obligated to drag him everywhere with you."

"I don't drag him anywhere," Bodie fumed, " and what's more, I do not feel obligated to look after him, he's a friend, that's all, a bloke who's just feeling a bit low who happens to be between girlfriends at the moment." Carole's unwillingness to understand Doyle's problem was beginning to irritate Bodie beyond his patience. "If you don't feel like going out tonight just say so!"

"And you'll go to see the film with Ray," she sniped at him.

"And I'll go to see the film with Ray. Just the two of us," Bodie agreed icily.

"Well I hope you'll be very happy together. You make a wonderful couple!" Carole turned away and opened the door. Bodie took the hint.

"I don't believe this," he stormed. "What are you getting so wound up about--anybody would think I'd invited him to come to bed with us instead of the pictures!"

"The way you've been carrying on it wouldn't surprise me," Carole shouted back.

"Exactly what did you mean by that?" Bodie asked, his voice so cold and hard that Carole flinched as if his words had actually struck her.

"Just what I said," she answered bravely, only barely managing to stop herself from stepping back to escape the tiger she had unwittingly unleashed in her living room. "It really wouldn't surprise me if you did invite him to bed with us. You called me Ray the other night," she said hurriedly as Bodie stared at her. "You were stroking my arm and you kissed my shoulder--I thought you were awake but then you pulled me back towards you and kissed me again--then you called me Ray, you said it twice, you thought you were kissing--Bodie!" She screamed and ran towards the safety of the kitchen, her eyes wide and frightened. Bodie started after her but quickly regained control of his senses. He stared down at Carole, seeing her very obvious fear and realising with a shock that he was the cause of it. Stepping backwards toward the door, he smiled, a smooth cheerless smile that was a mockery of his normal smug grin.

"If you didn't want to see the film you should've said. There was no need to go to extremes, you know." He reached the door. "I'll tell Ray you're not feeling too good but that you send your love. See you sometime then, okay?"

Carole nodded, a sharp jerky movement of her head without taking her eyes off him for a second.

They were halfway up the road before Doyle managed to clamber over into the front passenger seat and repeat his question.

"She's got a bad migraine," Bodie answered curtly as he mashed the gears yet again.

The evening was not a success. The film was awful, the projectionist managing to get the lip-synch movements right only half an hour before the end, not that they could concentrate on the rather intricate plot anyway--the crisp-crunching, sweet-rustling restless bunch of moronic young trendies that had turned up in force had seen to that.

After the film finished, Doyle followed a very moody Bodie back to the car and allowed himself to be driven home in silence. Outside his block he tried--one last time--to break through the cloud his partner had hidden behind but Bodie had shrugged his concern off. Knowing that he had somehow soured things between Bodie and Carole made him awkward and uneasy; Bodie had been so sure that Carole wouldn't object to his presence and Doyle now knew that that had not been the case.

Still furiously angry with Carole for resorting to such a callous method of dumping him, Bodie didn't realise that Doyle was still completely unaware of what had taken place in Carole's flat. Her spur of the moment accusation was still sending shock waves through his mind. Dropping Doyle off outside his flat, Bodie drove home, still seething at the lying little cat's revenge. Why, he wondered, had she chosen that little scenario? There were easier ways to end a relationship.

Pouring himself a drink, Bodie began to find it amusing. He could just imagine what Doyle's reaction would be if he told him. He knew he never would, though. He didn't know why--he just knew that he never would, he wouldn't see Carole again either, she could sharpen her claws on someone else. Unsettled, sleep took a long time to come and, when it finally took hold, it was restless and uneasy, his dreams haunting grey affairs that were out of focus and impossible to follow, the substance of each always just too far away or too vague to reach, dreams that held so much promise but which, on awakening to the alarm's clamour, left him feeling alone and mildly depressed.

At HQ the next day Bodie spent a good twenty minutes wandering through the offices, locker room and rest rooms before stopping someone and asking them if they had seen his missing partner.

"What is it with Doyle," Murphy asked. "You're the third person to ask me that today."

"Who else is after him?"

"Cowley--but he was also asking if you'd managed to drag yourself in yet as well, and Doctor Willis."

Checking first with Cowley's secretary, Bodie wondered down to the medical room and poked his head around the door just in time to catch the tail end of Willis' favourite lecture and the expression of polite interest that sat awkwardly on his partner's face.

"...Well, you've heard me say all of this before, haven't you, Doyle?" Willis said. "Hop up onto the scales, I'll just check to see how your weight's coming on--you still look too slim for my money. Whatever Macklin says, I say you need pounds as well as skill to cope with a determined adversary. Just slip your shoes off while I get your record sheet from the file."

As the doctor stepped into the adjoining office, Bodie slipped into the room and quietly closed the door.

"What's with the medical--you ill or something?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," Doyle said as he undid his trainers and stepped onto the scales. "Oh shit!" he groaned as he looked at the reading. "I'm going to get another lecture on wholesome eating habits."

"Let's 'ave a look. Well," Bodie said, grinning from ear to ear, "it's getting better."

"I've been ten stone or just under for a couple of months now, it just won't go up any more," Doyle complained.

"Try eating a bit more."

"I don't have the ability to gorge myself like some people I could mention."

"How's this?" Bodie asked as he peered at the scale.

"Ten and ha-- What are you doing?" Doyle said in amazement, then grinned as he saw Bodie's foot resting on the platform just behind his.

"Here we are then," Willis said, re-entering the room. "Good morning, Bodie. Well that is an improvement I must say!" Surprise at the scale's measure clearly showing on his face, Willis blinked and re-checked the measure, looked disbelievingly into Doyle's innocent wide eyes and then swiftly over to the table where the lead weights were all neatly and correctly placed. "Well this does surprise me, I must say that I thought you were still under your optimum weight and it's not often I make a...mistake. Mr Bodie," Willis said, smoothly, "are you aware of the fact that your foot is resting on the scale? Thank you. Now let's see what it says."

Sheepishly, Bodie backed away and left Doyle to the mercies of the damning scales. "That is more like it, Mr Doyle," Willis said crisply. "You are still to my mind underweight and I shall record the fact on your file."

"You are still passing me fit for active duty though, aren't you?"

Stepping down and retrieving his shoes, Doyle's eyes followed the doctor around the room. Worried, he repeated his question, Bodie chipping in with his own concern about his partner's duty status.

Willis regarded the two men closely and made a mental note to inform Cowley and Ross of the incident. He toyed with the idea of standing Doyle down just to see what they would both do.

"I am not satisfied with your weight, Doyle, but I agree with you that at the moment it does not appear to be affecting your performance. However," he added as the two men relaxed, "do not consider the matter closed. If for any reason your weight drops below ten stone I will recommend that you be removed from the active list."

Summarily dismissed, the two men escaped out into the corridor.

"What did he drag you in for?" Bodie asked as they made their way up to Cowley's office.

"I don't think he had anything better to do--no bullet wounds or broken bones to patch up!"

"Now, now, 4.5," Bodie chided. "There's no need to sound so bitter. We can't have you fading away or getting blown away by a puff of wind can we?"

"I'll blow you away if you don't belt up."

"Oh yeah--you and whose army?" Bodie jostled against Doyle, making him stumble on the stairs.

"Just me!" Doyle retaliated, shoving Bodie across the stairwell then hooking a hand into the waistband of his partner's trousers to pull him even more off balance. It was the signal for a schoolboy scuffle to break out and they tussled and giggled on the stairs, each preventing the other from moving to escape until...

"3.7, 4.5," a voice barked out, stopping them in their tracks. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Sorry, sir," Bodie apologised as he attempted to tuck his shirt back in.

"Sorry, sir," Doyle echoed, tugging his jacket back up onto his shoulders.

"I will not have brawling in the halls of CI5, is that understood?" he snapped.

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir," the two men chorused. The sight of Doyle unconsciously sniffing and rubbing the back of his hand across his nose made Cowley feel like a headmaster scolding two mischievous, scruffy schoolboys, their embarrassment and efforts to straighten out their faces and clothing only heightening the illusion. He dismissed them, ordering them to await him in briefing room two, but not before Bodie caught sight of the smile that twitched at the corner of his boss' mouth.

---

A short while later they were heading across town to an insignificant old building almost hidden from sight just off a busy main road. They parked along the side of the building and walked quickly towards the battered looking door. Bodie pressed the buzzer and spoke his name into the rusty security intercom.

The door buzzed and they entered a different world. The contrast to the drab, rundown exterior was remarkable, sophisticated surveillance equipment was in evidence everywhere and their I.D.s were thoroughly checked before they were allowed to proceed any further into the building. As they walked down to the interrogation rooms in the basement a sudden scream of metal, gears and protesting machinery echoed in the stone stairwell.

"That," Bodie said in response to Doyle's query, " is why we are walking down to the basement. They've spent almost a million pounds on electronic surveillance and security equipment but refuse point-blank to improve the lift that was installed when the building was built."

The noise stopped as suddenly as it had started. "It's safe enough to use, I suppose," Bodie added, "but it has a nasty habit of getting stuck. About two years ago I got stuck in there for over an hour with Ruth and Susan," he sighed. "It took them an hour to realise we hadn't rung the alarm bell!"

Refusing to acknowledge the smug grin on his partner's face, Doyle elbowed his way past him and out into the corridor. The strict security was even more in evidence down here. Having had their I.D.s verified yet again, they finally reached their destination. Day was waiting for them, and they both eyed his rumpled and battered appearance, the bruising around his lip and eye darkening nicely.

"You took your time getting here," he snapped at them.

"Came as soon as we could," Doyle said placidly. It was obvious that Day was tired and in some pain from his injuries and this helped Bodie to be a little more tolerant. Doyle didn't bother to answer at all, he just returned the icy stare he was receiving.

"Cowley told you what we want, did he?"

"Not really--things are a bit hectic back at HQ, what with the bomb outside the Old Bailey, the Prime Minister's car being rammed in Downing Street and your little party last night. He didn't have much time to brief us properly. What's going on?"

In answer, Day indicated that they should follow him. The room was full of electronic surveillance screens and devices, the banks of televisions showing the goings on in each of the interrogation rooms. In front of each screen, an operator monitored the discussions taking place.

"We pulled in six men last night in connection with the Christmas case. At first we thought that the Drugs Squad had blown it but then I noticed something in this man's records."

Doyle and Bodie exchanged glances at the man's pompous tones and then looked at the screen. "I thought that Doyle might be able to tell us something about him."

Ignoring the coolness in Day's voice, Dole peered at the image of the man sitting at a table in one of the rooms.

"Who is he?"

"Are you saying that you don't know him?" Day asked.

"I wouldn't ask if I already knew his name, would I!" Doyle returned sharply. "Why do you think I know him anyway?"

"You won't have seen him for nearly four years. Take another look. Are you sure you don't know him?" Day insisted.

Doyle looked again. Four years ago; that would take him back to the time he was arrested. What the hell was Day up to now, he wondered.

"I've had another look and I don't know him. I've never seen him before. Now," he turned to Day, "tell me what's going on."

"It's strange that you don't know him," Day answered snidely. "Specially since he was based at the same station you were."

"He's a policeman?" Bodie asked, staring at the skinny, nervous looking man on the screen.

"No," said Day. "He was a motor mechanic at the station, he looked after the repairs and the garage, did a bit of driving. He worked there about a year in all, left about two weeks after Doyle was arrested."

Refusing to rise to the bait, Doyle asked why they had pulled the man in.

"The Drugs Squad team raided a 'shop' last night, only it turned out to be more than just the shop. It's a factory store house and pushers' warehouse. Things got a bit hairy for a while and they had to call us in. We found him, Alan Weston," Day pointed to the screen, "hiding in a cupboard."

"And just because he happens to have been employed at the same station as Doyle you dragged us halfway across town to let us know."

"I wouldn't bother Cowley or you if it was just that," Day said smoothly, smiling at Doyle. "It was Weston's reaction to a question that made me think Doyle might know something. I'll show you."

Day asked the operator to wind the tape back and the scene on the screen changed to reveal a stormy interview taking place between Weston and Day. Weston was pacing up and down the room, his face white and running with sweat, his movements fast, jerky and barely controlled.

"...I don't know what you're talking about. I was only there to get some stuff. I always buy my supply there, but I don't know anything about them others. I've never seen them before."

"You used to work for the Met. police, didn't you?" Day asked quietly. "Were you a junkie then? How did you get your supplies while you worked at the station? Did anyone know you were a junkie?"

"No. No," Weston said, shaking his head.

"You were already on drugs when you worked for the police weren't you, Alan?"

"Yes," Weston admitted. "But no one knew, I'd've lost my job if they'd found out."

"Who supplied you then while you were at the station. Who?" Day pushed.

"No one, no one."

"Come on, Alan, someone did, just tell me who."

"No, no." Weston stopped pacing and leant against the wall, closing his eyes. "No, I can't tell you." He wrapped his arms around himself and sank, groaning, to the floor. "Please," he begged, "I need some really bad. Please!"

"Tell me what I want and I'll see you get something to help you," Day coaxed. "Tell me who your supplier was."

Weston whimpered and shook his head, refusing to speak.

"You must have got to know quite a few people while you were working there. Get to meet many of the police officers did you?" Weston nodded this time. "Didn't the Drugs Squad use that station as a base for their operation?" Weston whimpered again but he didn't move.

"Did you ever meet an old friend of mine," Day asked gently, "he was there with the Drugs Squad about the time you were--Ray Doyle's his name. Oh, you do remember him!"

Weston's eyes opened wide and he shook his head frantically, the whimpers and cries growing alarmingly.

"Tell me about Doyle," Day pushed. "Did he know you were a junkie?"

Bodie switched the tape off as Doyle went for Day, then pulled the two men apart and hustled them out past the eagle-eyed operators and into an empty interrogation room.

"Just what do you think you're up to?" Bodie demanded to know as soon as the door closed behind them. His question was ignored by the two men as they squared up to each other, Doyle's face contorted into an ugly snarl.

"You just won't let up, will you?" Doyle growled. "You won't let things be. You keep on pushing and poking around, you're determined to find some dirt, aren't you? It doesn't matter that Cowley believes me, that the Home Secretary believes me, that I've been cleared and pardoned officially. You know that Mike Behan confessed to framing me! Why are you so determined to prove everyone wrong and me guilty. Why!"

"A death-bed confession!" Day sneered. "How very dramatic, how very convenient. I wonder how much someone paid him to do it!"

For a second Bodie thought his partner was going to launch himself across the few feet separating him from Day but after a few moments Doyle, his whole body trembling with rage, turned his back on him, clearly trying to control his urge to lash out--to hurt as much as he was being hurt.

"What," Doyle demanded coldly, "do you mean by 'convenient'?"

"Just that," Day snapped back, his attention divided equally between Doyle's back and Bodie's glowering presence. "Why did he wait so long to develop a guilty conscience. He knew he was dying for nearly a year before he finally did. If the 'guilt' was troubling him that much why didn't he confess earlier?" Feeling more confident that Bodie was prepared to act as referee, Day continued, "I hear his wife's just bought a lovely little bungalow down in Cornwall, didn't realise a widow's pension could run to that sort of money."

"If you've got a point to make, Day--make it!" Bodie ordered.

"All right," he said. "How does this sound--" He waited until Doyle turned back round to face him. "You're a liar, Doyle--and what's more I'm going to prove it. You've been very clever getting this far but you don't fool me for one second."

"What proof have you got to back this up, Day?" Bodie wanted to know. "You can't go round making allegations of this sort without--"

"Oh I've got proof, Bodie--and he knows it," Day gloated as he stared into Doyle's white face. "Maybe D.I. Behan was bent, but there's no reason why he should have been the only one--and that man in there--" he jerked his head towards the other interrogation rooms, "Weston, he knows something--he certainly knows Doyle--and I'll make damn sure he tells me everything he knows."

"Are you going to make this official--drag Internal Security into it? Do you really think you're going to find anything Cowley overlooked?" Bodie wanted to know; he cast a puzzled glance over to where Doyle stood, white-faced, a frozen mute statue.

"What do you take me for, Bodie," Day said tiredly. "Of course I'm making it official, I couldn't do otherwise, could I?" Both men turned to Doyle, waiting for him to say something, do something--anything--but he remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the tiny barred ventilation window. Eventually Day shrugged his shoulders, nodded to Bodie and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Long minutes passed before Bodie moved the few steps to stand at Doyle's side; he reached out and gripped a thin shoulder and felt Doyle draw a long shuddering breath then hold it a few seconds before slowly releasing it.

"Not again," he whispered. "Dear God, not again."

"Come on, mate," Bodie said awkwardly. "I've never known the Cow to be wrong about something as important as this."

"But," Doyle said slowly, as he turned to look at him. "But there's a first time for everything--is that what you were going to say?"

Usually so expressive, Doyle's face was unreadable and Bodie found himself lost, wondering for a brief moment whether Day really had stumbled onto something; the doubt must have shown on his own face because Doyle's expressionless mask crumpled, revealing the fear and hopeless dejection that he was feeling.

"I've never asked you outright, Doyle," Bodie began, "because I didn't think there was any need, and I'm not asking now because you've given me reason to doubt you--but," Doyle looked at him unblinking waiting for the final blow to fall, "but I have to ask you now, especially if Day's going to push this thing." The cool, level stare was unnerving but Bodie finally voiced his question.

"Are you guilty?"

"The judge and jury thought so," Doyle answered, "my former friends and colleagues didn't have too much trouble believing I was guilty, my family made all sorts of sympathetic noise but I could tell they didn't really believe me! You know, Bodie," Doyle laughed, a harsh, ugly sound, "until George Cowley told me I was innocent even I believed I was guilty. After all," he reasoned, smiling at his partner, "could all those people be that wrong, could they? Mike Behan--who was he anyway--just a friend, just a bloke I once knew, maybe he thought he'd just do an old friend a favour so he very kindly wrote a nice tidy death-bed confession--fooled everyone didn't he--certainly fooled George Cowley." Doyle laughed again, seemingly highly amused at the joke he had pulled on everyone and Bodie felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Sickened, he turned to leave.

Doyle stopped him, his voice cracking, breaking, the laughter completely gone.

"No!" he cried out. "No!" Bodie turned back in time to see Doyle drive a fist into the solid brickwork. He heard the crunch of bone. "I didn't do it!" He hit the wall again. "I didn't," and again, "I didn't!" Bodie reached out in time to stop the fist pounding into the wall a fourth time.

"Okay, okay," he murmured, pulling Doyle away from the wall, "you didn't do it, I believe you."

"You do?" Doyle asked, his voice quietly desperate.

"I do," Bodie agreed."

"Why?"

The question threw Bodie for a second or two and he found he had no logical reasoned answer. "Because I do, dunno why," he said honestly. "But I do believe you."

The confidence in Bodie's voice was reassuring and Doyle found himself beginning to relax a little, but the relaxation only made him realise how much damage he had done to his hand; it throbbed painfully.

"Come on," Bodie tugged him towards the door, ruffling the curly mop of hair affectionately. "They've got a first aid room upstairs somewhere--let's go and get that fixed before we try and sort out this mess."

Out in the corridor they bumped into Lake, who was limping past the door.

"Hey, Puddle," Bodie called out, "you any idea where the first aid room is in this place?"

"It just so happens that I do--I'm on my way there myself--and the queue forms behind me," he added as he saw the sorry state of Doyle's hand. "What does the other guy look like?"

"In need of a plaster job and a fresh coat of paint," Bodie said as he walked the wounded towards the stairs.

"Oh, no," said Lake, "not them, it's on the third floor--I'm using the lift." As soon as he pushed the call button the machinery screamed into life. Pushing his mistrust of the lift to one side, Bodie followed his companions into the spacious but antiquated car and closed the doors. They passed the basement levels, ground and first floors, the machinery's scream changed to a different agonised note, the car juddered, halted, started again and finally stopped completely somewhere between the second and third floors.

All three of them stared at the floor indicator, willing the little arrow to move up onto the three, waiting in expectant silence for the reassuring scream of gears and weights.

"Fuck it!" Lake said eventually, and totally without heat, already resigned to a long wait.

"Fuck it," Bodie echoed as he slid down the wall to make himself comfortable on the floor. Sliding down a little more carefully, Lake shifted his injured leg out of Bodie's way and calmly opened the emergency telephone cupboard to tell whoever answered it that the main lift had broken down again and would someone please try and come to get them out as soon as possible.

Still standing up nursing his sore hand, Doyle stared from one man to the other in amazement. Lake looked up at him then across at Bodie, who was in the process of turning his jacket into a pillow behind his head.

"This his first time, is it?" Lake asked.

"I did tell you about this thing, Doyle, didn't I! You may as well make yourself comfortable--it'll take them an hour at least to get us out of here." Bodie looked back at Lake. "Yeah, his first time--I reckon he thought I was just making it up."

"Did you tell him about the time you got stuck with Ruth and Susan?"

"Yeah," Bodie sighed. "Pity they're not here now--wasted of bloody time getting stuck with you two."

"Just hold your noise, Bodie," said Doyle as he settled himself on the floor next to his partner. "It could be worse--you could 'ave got stuck with Cowley."

"Or Macklin."

"Or Evans with his perishing cigars."

They tried to outdo each other by naming the worst person to get stuck with, going from the sublime to the ridiculous as their suggestions became more outrageous.

"Well," Lake said finally, as their laughter quieted down, "at least we missed getting lumbered with Day--he's been a right bloody pain recently."

"Oh I don't know," said Doyle. "I wouldn't mind having him all to myself for a few hours in a locked room." The humour vanished in a flash and all three sobered up.

"What's he up to?" Lake asked. "He's dancing around like a flea on heat right now--seems pretty excited about something." As soon as the words were spoken Lake felt the atmosphere in the cramped compartment change. "What's going on?" he asked of both of them. "Is he still trying to stir up trouble for Doyle?"

"He's doing his level best," said Bodie grimly.

"You know why he's got it in for you, Doyle, don't you?" Lake said quietly. Doyle shook his head and Bodie looked up interestedly. "Before he joined CI5 he worked in army intelligence out in Hong Kong. A friend of his was murdered trying to break into a smuggling outfit--when they caught the murderer he turned out to be a policeman, seems the bloke realised Day's pal was onto him and shot him full of pure heroin, so not only does Day hate pushers, users and suppliers, he also hates bent policemen. The way he carries on I think he blames just about every bent copper for his mate's death, it's nothing personal against you, you understand--it's just something he feels very strongly about."

"If he's neurotic about bent coppers he's got no right to be in CI5!"

"Maybe he is going a bit over the top where Doyle's concerned--but he is a good man--give credit where it's due. Once he's investigated Doyle and found nothing he'll give up, he's only making sure."

Neither Doyle or Bodie found Puddle's words particularly reassuring though they didn't say so. Bodie changed the subject and they all welcomed the fresh topic, leaving the uneasy thoughts about Day's accusations as far behind them as they could.

At last the sound of something happening above began to filter down to them and via the emergency telephone Lake informed them they were going to have to hand-crank the car back down to the second floor to get them out. The car juddered and shook a couple of times until suddenly, with a muffled bang and a painful cry, the car was plunged into total darkness.

"What the--" Bodie began, only to stop as his arm was gripped painfully tight.

"Oh wonderful!" Lake could be heard swearing from the other side of the car. Bodie guessed that the swearing was being directed to the poor unfortunate at the other end of the emergency line. While Lake was clearly so busy on the other side of the left, Bodie tried to release the painful grip on his upper arm.

"Ray," he whispered underneath Lake's irate dialogue. "Jesus, let go, you're cutting off the circulation!" He managed to prise the fingers away but they clutched desperately at his hands; he could feel the whole of Doyle's body shaking beside him.

"Ss..sorry... I'm sorry," Doyle mumbled.

Bodie's mind was racing. Doyle was clearly petrified, the grip on his hands was still just as strong, the initial shock of being plunged into total darkness had not worn off.

He's afraid of the dark! Bodie realised incredulously--and not just afraid either--he's bloody petrified. Suddenly Bodie remembered the nightly pantomime that happened every time they had slept together; every night out of habit and preference, Bodie would close the curtains before going into the bathroom, and every night Doyle would open them again.

Without warning Doyle released his hold and withdrew slightly, moving away.

"Would you believe it," said Lake. "The stupid bugger only went and dropped a wrench into the fuse box, the whole bloody works are jammed up now--it's gonna take 'em another thirty minutes at least to get us out."

Whilst joining Lake in expressing his opinion of the average British workman Bodie wondered what the hell he should do. Cautiously he stretched out a hand until he touched Doyle; he felt him flinch at his touch and heard the soft indrawn breath. Feeling blindly, Bodie worked out that Doyle was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around himself, he was trembling continuously. Still carrying on the banter with Lake, Bodie shifted his position slightly and slipped an arm around Doyle's shoulders, then found a tightly clenched hand with his free arm and prised the fingers loose, holding the hand firmly; rubbing the back of it with gentle circular movements of his thumb he pulled the stiff body to lie closer alongside him, his actions offering comfort and reassurance while he continued talking to Lake without giving a hint of what was taking place only feet away from him.

"You gone to sleep on us, Doyle?" Lake asked unexpectedly. Bodie felt Doyle tense up even more and went to say something to cover up if he wasn't going to answer but it was all right.

"I've been considering the idea." Doyle's voice was nearly normal and Bodie didn't think Lake would notice the difference.

"I wonder if we can put this down as overtime," Lake pondered aloud.

"No chance," Doyle offered. "Cowley's more likely to put this down to time off. We'll come out of here owing him a couple of hours!"

"You're probably right," Lake agreed morosely. "Hang on a minute, was that an earthquake or are we really moving?"

They were moving. Shaking and juddering every inch of the way, the car moved downwards until voices on the other side of the door told them they had arrived. Scrambling to their feet in the blackness, they were ready to be liberated from their dark prison.

Blinking in the bright neon-lit corridor, Bodie shrugged back into his jacket and pushed through the welcoming committee. Further down the hall he put a hand on Doyle's arm, stopping him.

"How's the hand?" he asked. "You really ought to get it seen to."

"It's okay, a bit sore but nothing's broken," Doyle assured him, flexing it to prove the point.

"Ah, there you are--Doyle, isn't it?" a tall, forbidding-looking man asked. "Let me see that," he said and before either man could react he took a hold of Doyle's bruised and swollen hand and began manipulating it. "Oh, I'm Doctor Webster, Mr Lake said that you were coming along to see me about this--how does this feel?"

"Ouch!"

"Ah hah," the doctor said in the say that all doctors do. "And how about this? I see." Doyle's wince and sharp intake of air through gritted teeth told him all he wanted to know. "It's not broken but if you want to make sure you'd better drive over to the medical section at your HQ."

"It's okay," Doyle said, gently pulling his hand out of the doctor's painful grasp. "I know it's only bruised--just looks a lot worse than it is, that's all."

Having ascertained that his medical skills were not needed, Doctor Webster nodded politely and moved back along the corridor to escort the limping Lake up to the first aid room.

"You sure you're all right?" Bodie asked worriedly. Doyle was more than just a little pale around the gills.

"Jesus--he's got hands like a bleedin' vise!" Doyle swore as he nursed his injured fingers. "If it wasn't broken before I bet it bloody well is now--I think he's crushed it. Did you see the size of his hands?"

Bodie made sympathetic noises as they returned via the stairs to the ground floor.

"We might as well return to HQ," he said as they walked back to their car. "I can't see any point hanging around here--can you?"

"No," Doyle said shortly. "Besides, I want to know if Cowley knows what Day is up to."

"He doesn't."

"You sound very sure of yourself," Doyle said.

"I just know George Cowley," Bodie answered carefully. "If he had even the slightest doubt about your involvement in this drugs business you'd be out so quick your feet wouldn't touch the ground."

"You reckon?" Doyle said glumly.

They were summoned to Cowley's office as soon as they entered the building. The first thing Doyle saw as he entered the office was the video tape.

"You have seen this tape," Cowley said. "You are aware of its implication, Doyle?" His face was unreadable and Bodie saw the colour drain from his partner's face.

"Yes, sir," Doyle said quietly.

"Have you anything to say about it?" Again Cowley's voice was impossible to read as he spoke without the slightest inflection that could be construed as a hint of how he regarded the film.

"No, sir."

"This man Weston, Alan Weston--did you know him?"

"No, sir."

"Even though you've been told he was employed at the same station as you were at the time of your arrest?"

"I don't know him, sir."

"You're sure about that?"

"I don't know him," Doyle repeated stubbornly.

"How do you account for the fact that he knows you?"

"I don't know him," Doyle repeated again. "I don't recognise him or his name--and I've no idea why he thinks he knows me."

"Knows you!" said Cowley. "He was already agitated when Day began to interview him, he became positively incoherent when your name was mentioned--why should the mere mention of your name have that effect on a man you say you don't know?"

"I don't know, sir."

"You are not being very helpful, Doyle." A measure of irritation had crept into Cowley's voice.

"I don't know the man!" Doyle suddenly shouted. "A lot of people worked at that station--I don't know everybody that ever worked there, maybe he does know me but if I ever met him or spoke to him I don't remember him and I don't know why he thinks he knows me!"

"If he was working at the same station when Doyle was arrested he's got more reason to remember Doyle than the other way around," Bodie added. "It's not every day that a policeman gets arrested, is it--he's bound to remember Doyle--it must have made quite an impact on the place after all!"

Cowley waited quietly, watching and listening intently to both men. Doyle was understandably worried by the day's events and was reacting exactly as he would have expected him to, but it was Bodie's reaction that he found the most interesting.

What Day thought he had uncovered certainly appeared very damning for Doyle, all his arguments--though based on supposition, conjecture and very little fact--were plausible and they would be stupid not to check into it further. Cowley knew that, and so must Bodie--but it appeared that Bodie had already made his decision. Armed only with the same facts they all had plus nine months' close contact with Doyle, he had clearly decided that his partner was innocent.

Bodie had learned to trust.

There were very few people that could claim to have Bodie's complete and utter trust; Doyle had joined a very small, exclusive club.

"Very well," Cowley said eventually, when Bodie finally paused in the defence of his partner, "the matter will have to be followed through of course but in the meantime I want to two to get down to..."

Doyle listened in amazement as Cowley began to brief them on their next assignment. He had been expecting to be carted off back to the interrogation centre or at least to be stood down, suspended while Day continued his investigations. It wasn't until Bodie nudged him towards the door he realised that the briefing was over and he didn't have a clue as to what they were supposed to be doing.

---

Having drawn the short straw, Doyle ended up spending the night across the road from a smart block of service flats in his car while Bodie was comfortably asleep at home in his own bed. By the time Bodie joined him at eight o'clock the next morning he was too cold and tired to care about anything. That absolutely nothing untoward had happened throughout the long night was no surprise to either man.

"Sleep well, did you?" he asked sourly as he took in the bright-eyed well-rested smugness of his partner.

"Lovely, thank you," Bodie returned politely. "No ghoulies or ghosties turned up then?"

"Not one--though I did witness some interesting goings on in a blue Volvo estate over there; could 'ave been arrested for being a peeping tom!"

"Yeah, Mac said things got a little lively--said to tell you that you ought to try being a radio commentator, reckoned you have a 'very descriptive turn of phrase' was the expression he used."

"Get him going did I?" Doyle laughed. Finding himself a reluctant spectator to a truly mind-boggling display of what two people of opposite sex but like minds could get up to in a car, Doyle had enlightened the nightwatch at HQ with a step-by-step account of the couple's antics. When the windows of their car had steamed up Doyle would not have been in the least bit surprised to discover Mac suddenly turning up and offering to clean and polish the car's windows in time for the grand finale.

"Is she moving around yet?" Bodie peered up at the window."

"Hasn't drawn the curtains back--postman arrived half an hour ago, she's got two letters, an Access statement and a telephone bill."

"My we're getting efficient aren't we," Bodie said; then: "She's up, the curtains were just pulled back so she's probably going in to work. We'll follow her and try to make contact, then you can shoot off home to get some kip before checking the firm out."

More disgruntled than he wanted to admit about the surveillance detail Cowley had put them on, Doyle's ill humour was only slightly appeased by the promise of sleep.

"Baby-sitting!" he snorted. "Who is she anyway? No one," he answered himself. "A nobody. A toffee-nosed, poor-little-rich spinster whose only joy in life is imagining terrifying encounters with sinister masked men in underground car parks!"

Bodie sat quietly as Doyle moaned and complained about their assignment; he knew as well as Doyle did what was really disturbing him, and it wasn't Susan Grant's mysterious masked man.

"I dunno who Cowley thinks he's fooling," Doyle continued, "anyone with half a brain can see there's nothing in this. Why doesn't he just come right out and stick me on suspension, at least that way you won't be lumbered with following some toffee-nosed tart around."

"Give it a rest, Doyle," Bodie snapped irritably. "The Old Man's not stupid. If he wanted to suspend you he would--he wouldn't waste time sticking both of us on this job just to keep you busy!"

Doyle emitted a low grunt, whether of denial or agreement Bodie was none too sure but at least it ended that particular conversation and they sat side by side in a silence that was only broken by the odd sarcastic or barbed comment.

At last, the woman emerged from the building and began her drive to the office. Doyle watched in stony-faced silence as Bodie went into action and made contact.

Waving Susan a polite and friendly farewell, Bodie climbed back into his car and moved off to park in a side street.

"And that, my son, is how the experts do it," said, grinning idiotically across at Doyle, wanting desperately, without realising it, to see the despondent gloom leave that weary face.

"I'm very impressed," Doyle intoned flatly.

"Yes," said Bodie with false cheeriness, "I can see that."

"Well," Doyle said with a sigh as he twisted around to get out of the car, "I can't hang around here all day, call me later on this afternoon to fill me in on the day's exciting events." Slamming the door shut, he turned and moved off to the end of the road where Bodie watched him hail a cab.

Echoing Doyle's heavy-hearted sigh, Bodie climbed out of the car and opened up the boot to take out the brand new light fitment he'd bought the night before and went to repair the damage he had deliberately caused to the girl's car.

---

CHAPTER TWELVE

Setting the alarm to allow himself six hours' sleep, Doyle snuggled down between the covers and closed his eyes. An hour later he got up and made himself a cup of tea in the hope that a hot drink would help to relax his tired body. Sitting on the settee, idly sipping at his drink and listening to the noises down in the street, he deliberately forced his mind away from the happenings of the previous day. Maybe, just maybe, he reasoned, if he didn't think of it nobody else would either.

He wondered if Ann was back from America yet. On calling her office a few days ago he had been informed that her return had been delayed due to business commitments. The secretary's snooty tone had not encouraged him to leave any messages. His fingers dialled her home number without conscious thought--he had called her flat so many times over the past few weeks that he no longer expected an answer.

"Hello, Ann Holly."

The tea cup was resting on his lips and he almost choked on a mouthful of hot liquid.

"Hello?"

Doyle swallowed the tea and tried to speak, separately trying to say something--anything, but his voice failed him.

"Hello?" Ann said again. "Is anyone there? Hello?" There was a short silence in which an irritated sigh was heard and then the line went dead.

"Hello Ann, Ann?" He finally managed to get the words out but it was too late. Swearing, he slammed the phone down. It was a conspiracy, he decided bitterly. Nothing but nothing ever went the way he wanted it. All his plans for getting back with Ann were falling to pieces around him. He had known that it wouldn't be easy but he hadn't expected it would be this hard either!

Going back to bed, he relaxed his mind by daydreaming his own reunion with her but, even in fantasy, the picture of Ann--waiting damp-eyed and beautiful outside the prison gate--refused to gel, so he tried another one. This time, in true Hollywood style, the dream flowed like magic along its way. He saw her walking along a sunlit pavement, her pretty face sad and her eyes dull and listless as she trudged along her weary way with her shopping. Buying an enormous colourful bouquet from an old flower woman, he crept up alongside Ann, who was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't see him.

"Ann," he said softly, reaching out to touch her hand. She turned toward him, her face and eyes lighting up in recognition, the love she felt radiating from her.

The dream followed its programmed course and soon they were lying together in their old bedroom, the pictures on the walls and the scent on the sheets as familiar to him as the warm, graceful body that he held in his arms. Replete and comfortable, they slept.

The dream had been so vivid that it took Doyle a moment to remember that a dream was all it had been and that Ann had never been there. He rolled over and turned the buzzing alarm off, the feeling of having just lost something precious still strong enough to depress him. He lay there a while, thinking about getting up and trying to recapture a little of the happiness he knew he had felt during his sleep. He was still lying there dozing and dreaming when the phone rang.

"Ray? Where the hell have you been. I've been looking all over for you." Bodie didn't sound pleased.

"What?" Doyle blinked and looked at the clock. "Oh shit! I'm sorry, I must've fallen asleep again," he apologised.

"Have you been to Companies House yet?"

"Ah--no...no I haven't and they'll be shutting up soon."

"You been asleep all day?" Bodie asked and Doyle had to admit that he had. "Well, there's no harm done," he said finally, "and if you're that tired you might just as well stand down for tonight."

"What about night surveillance on the Grant woman?" Doyle asked guiltily.

"I'll do it--I'm taking her out to dinner tonight."

"Reckon she'll invite you for breakfast then, do you?"

"Maybe, if not I'll make sure it's a late night and then tell Mac to send one of the new boys over to watch her place."

"Okay," Doyle agreed. "I'll get round to Companies House first thing tomorrow morning and then come over to you. Where will you be--outside her work place?"

"Yes. I'll see you tomorrow then."

Doyle had only replaced the handset when it rang again.

"Doyle?" It was Cowley and he carried straight on into the reason for his call without giving Doyle time to draw a breath. "Alan Weston died a few hours ago. The doctors think it was probably a heart attack induced by prolonged drug abuse. There will be an inquest of course, but you are not required to attend it. I have instructed Day to make whatever enquiries he feels that are necessary regarding Weston's employment the Metropolitan Police, but I do not consider that he has enough evidence of collusion between yourself and Weston to initiate through Internal Security. Do you understand, Doyle?" Cowley asked. He waited only long enough to hear Doyle's bemused acknowledgement before ringing off.

So, thought Doyle, I.S. was not going to be called on--yet--though the threat was still there. Cowley had clearly given Day permission to continue his investigation. Mentally worn out, Doyle groaned aloud and collapsed back onto the bed. What should he do now? Bodie had, unfortunately as it turned out, given him the night off when he could really do with some work to keep his mind occupied. The rest of the afternoon and a whole long empty evening was stretched out in front of him. If he didn't find something to do he knew he would go quietly mad sitting there waiting for Day to ferret around until he found some more mud to throw.

He busied himself getting showered and dressed, then wandered around the supermarket before it closed. He did keep an eye out for Ann--just in case, but this was no rose-tinted dream and there was no sign of her. Home again he pottered around, moving piles of 'things' from one side of the room to another, half-heartedly tidying up. In the bedroom, at the back of a cupboard, he found the portfolio. Sitting back on his heels, he thumbed through the pages, pausing every so often to linger over one particular sketch or another before suddenly seeing, for the first time, the tiny cameos he had unconsciously doodled around the main pictures. Small sketches of Ann, some half completed, a few only roughly outlined and one or two more or less completed ones. He flicked back through the pages, amazed that he had drawn her so many times without realising it and frowning at the few he had obviously finished--they weren't very good at all, he acknowledged. For some reason he had never been able to capture Ann's likeness on paper. Scrabbling around in the bottom of the cupboard again, he found a few pencils and a small packet of charcoal. He settled himself down on the floor in a comfortable position, his back leaning against the bed, turned to a blank page and began to sketch Ann as he had seen her the other week with Bodie.

It was only the fading light that made him stop. Once he had to move to switch on a light the mood was gone and he could only look back over his work critically. There were three pictures in all and he wasn't particularly satisfied with any of them. He hadn't had much practise since leaving the prison and it showed. He spent some time tidying a few bits and pieces up, adding a little final detail or shading where it was needed, the charcoal gliding over the paper almost of its own accord. Doyle had never really thought that much about Bodie's appearance before and had never noticed how curly his hair was--at first he'd shaded in a smooth cap but it had looked so very wrong that he'd had to alter it. Not exactly curly like his own, of course, more...wavy, not straight like Ann's. He fiddled around for a while longer before putting the pad away.

After fixing himself something to eat, Doyle found he was still feeling very restless and unable to settle. The prospect of the whole evening with just his own company and the television didn't fire him with any enthusiasm. He debated whether to call Ann again, then his nerve failed after it had rung a brief three times without being answered. He flicked through his telephone book trying to choose a companion for the evening--Joanna, Delia, Claire? None of them, he knew, would find his strange mood agreeable so he was stuck with his own company--but he still couldn't face remaining indoors alone.

After checking in with HQ and making sure that everything was going all right with Bodie's plans for the unsuspecting Susan Grant, Doyle found himself heading towards a pub he had begun to frequent. Ordinarily it was not his choice of 'watering hole,' but he had stumbled on it more or less by accident a couple of months ago. That first time, Bodie had been with him and they had both been starving hungry, hot, tired and thirsty after an eventful, hectic day trailing a couple of IRA bomb-makers around the lowlights of London. By the time they had been relieved by Murphy and Johnson, the 'Brewers Arms' had been the first place they came across that sold food and drink and was open.

It was the sort of neighbourhood that supported boarding houses, bedsits and Salvation Army hostels and most of the customers seemed to be transients--labourers, drifters--people looking for somewhere to spend their dole money. Without saying anything to his partner, Doyle had visited the pub again a few nights later. So far he'd to struck up a conversation worthy of note but he was carefully building his identity. After his third visit the landlord had greeted him with a smile and drew him a pint of his usual without waiting to be asked--he was a regular customer!

"Evening, Ray," the barman said as he walked up to the bar. "Watch your toes--don't get trampled in the rush now! Lord, but it's busy tonight," Tommy laughed and wiped the imaginary sweat from his brow as he served Doyle with a drink.

"Can see that," Doyle answered as he looked around the room; apart from three old codgers playing dominoes in the corner and Mad Mary propped up next to the door to the ladies' loo, the place was empty. There were as many people behind the bar serving as there were waiting to be served. "Where is everybody?"

"Bleedin' unfaithful lot!" Tommy bemoaned. "They've all gone up to the Five Bells--got a stripper there tonight 'aven't they?"

"Don't take on so, love," consoled a brassy painted-up, cinched-in woman, "as soon as she drops 'er drawers they'll be back."

"If it's competition," Doyle offered, "maybe you should sign a stripper up to come down here--pinch the Five Bells' customers in retaliation."

Tommy's eyes lit up. "Now there's a thought, what do you think, Ivy?"

"I'm not 'aving no flirty bit flashing what God gave 'er in my bar, Thomas Mahone," Ivy informed her husband forcefully but then her eyes twinkled and she looked across at Doyle. "But there is something to be said for being a bit...different. I hear some pubs have these special 'Hen Nights' for the girls--you know...with a male stripper."

"Wot!" Tommy was outraged. "You mean a bunch of women all sit down to watch a bloke--a man--take 'is clothes off! That's...that's...disgusting!"

The unholy glint in Ivy's eye was unsettling Doyle. "Ooh...I dunno..." she said, completely ignoring her husband and winking at their customer. "D'yer fancy the job, sunshine?" she offered suggestively. "I'll pay you well for your trouble."

"Now look here, Ivy," Tommy broke in and dragged his good wife back towards their living quarters where he could be heard demanding to know where she had got to hear of such immoral goings on.

Chuckling to himself, Doyle moved over to the Space Invaders and began to test his skill. His score had reached a ridiculous 150,000 and he was on his fourth free game when the other 'regulars' began to drift back from the Five Bells with tales of the Mata-Hari-Annie and the wonderful things she could do to a pork pie. One or two people who recognised him drew him briefly into their groups to tell him the delights he had missed and, as the evening began to draw to a close, Doyle realised that he had actually enjoyed himself. Although he was quite pleased he had not had to sit through Annie's erotic performance, he found the second-hand tales amusing and the casual way that he had been included into the conversation warming. Without offering any information about himself, these people had accepted him. Odd snippets of conversation and half heard sentences led him to believe that a high proportion of the clientele had a finger--or two or three--in some racket or another, and he was pretty sure that he had seen at least one pusher trading his wares behind the large broken-down jukebox. Not that he could act on anything he saw, though, he could only watch and listen and wait. Eventually, if he was patient enough, careful enough and--the biggest if of all--if George Cowley thought it was worth blowing his cover for, he could act--but until then he had to sit and wait--and be friendly.

Being completely honest with himself, Doyle knew that this was really only a trial run and that nothing was likely to come out of his contacts with this particular pub, but it was a start. Someday, Cowley was going to ask him to establish himself as Ray Doyle, bent ex-cop, for real and then he would have no choice over where or when. At least this way he was doing at his own speed where, when and how he chose. So far he had offered very little information on himself and had been obviously vague when asked about his background. He knew they were curious about him but that was what he wanted, he would let little bits of background slip out piecemeal until they had the picture of him that he wanted--but on his terms and in his own time--not George Cowley's.

Emerging from yet another version of Annie's pork-pie routine, Doyle noticed that the atmosphere had undergone a drastic change. The friendly bonhomie had gone, to be replaced by a cool, somewhat icy nervousness as everyone watched the progress of two heavily built men across the room. From the corner of his eye, Doyle saw the pusher and his customer slip out a side door, a few more followed but with less discretion and glowering looks at the intruders.

The policemen reached the bar and Tommy moved to serve them--all the other staff suddenly finding things to do at the other end of the bar. Doyle's attention was drawn to the bald spot on the older man's head. It looked horribly familiar. His heart sank as the man turned slightly to talk to Tommy. He knew him, and Doyle was pretty sure that Detective Constable Henry Wilson would recognise him as soon as he saw him. He looked over to the door--if he was luck he just might slip out unseen... A strong hand gripped his arm tightly.

"Don't even think it, mate," his companion hissed. "As soon as you move towards that door you've 'ad it. Just stand still--Jimmy, move over here behind Ray." Held fast by the grip on his arm, Doyle could only watch as Jimmy complied with the instruction. "Sup up, Ray," the big man advised him. "You'll really attract his attention if you pass out--here, take this." This, was the man's own glass of whisky. The hand gripping his elbow pushed upwards and Doyle had the choice of drinking it or tipping it down his shirt. He drank it.

"Fuck it!" the big man hissed. "Bastard's comin' over, Ray," he warned.

The sudden weight on his shoulder turning him around still made him jump slightly but at least he was prepared.

"Well, well, well, I thought I recognised that curly mop. As I live and breathe! It's Ray Doyle, isn't it?" Wilson breezed, very loudly and very intentionally. "Hello, Ray. How's things?"

"Fine, thank you," Doyle replied tightly. Behind Wilson he could see everyone who hadn't already escaped out of the side door watching and listening to the drama unfolding before them--their appetite already whetted by Mata-Hari-Annie--a showdown with the Old Bill would round the evening off nicely.

"How long have you been out then?" Wilson asked loudly. "Thought you went down for seven years?"

"Eight, actually," Doyle grated out, refusing to be intimidated.

"Eight! My, my. Doesn't time fly--it hardly seems like yesterday... Tell me, Doyle, I've not heard the news today--you 'aven't escaped, have you." Amused by his own joke, Wilson laughed loudly, but when he'd finished his demeanour underwent a sudden change. The mock friendliness was replaced with a stern 'no nonsense' attitude and he grilled his victim mercilessly, uncaring of who was watching or listening.

His skin crawling with embarrassment, Doyle allowed Wilson to drag the details that Bob Craig had set up for him all those months ago for just this eventuality. Jimmy and the man who had tried to shield him moved away slightly to at least grant him the illusion of privacy, but the bar was far from private and Wilson was not renowned for his soft tones. Eventually, though, Wilson seemed satisfied with all the answers and Doyle began to think that the ordeal was over.

"Does your probation officer know what type of pub you frequent? Not exactly mixing with the right sort of people, are you? I dunno...can't help thinking there's something funny about you being in a place like this--maybe you ought to come back to the station while I check your details out."

Grateful that he'd at least had the sense to leave his I.D., gun and wallet locked in his car, Doyle allowed himself to be indignant enough to protest.

"You can't just take me in for nothing--I know my rights!"

"Of course you do," agreed Wilson. "But surely you remember that I can take you in on suspicion?"

"Suspicion of what!" Doyle asked, realising suddenly that the man was serious and that he could just possibly spend tonight locked up in the local nick.

"I'm sure I'd think of something by the time we reach the Station."

"Come on, Mr Wilson," Tommy said, butting in at last on the conversation. "You know as well as I do 'e ain't done nothin'. Leave the lad alone."

"You said you didn't know him when