NB: Based on the book and the film THE WICKER MAN by Anthony Shafer.

APRIL 15

"God, I'm sick of rain." Bodie sighed and lowered the field glasses. "Not to mention being sick of bloody draughty warehouses, never-ending stakeouts, and what passes for London springtime." He turned his attention on his partner. "And you, mate, you're just plain sick. You look like hell, Ray."

Doyle made a face and snatched the glasses away. "And you're supposed to be watching the place, not playing nanny."

"Listen, sunshine, you turn green one more time and I'll pot you on my windowsill next to me aspidistra."

"Give it a rest, will you? I'm all right."

"Sure you are. Come off it, Ray. You look 'orrible and probably feel worse. What's wrong with you anyway? You haven't been your usual, bouncy self for days. Why don't you tell Nanny Bodie all about it, son."

Doyle dropped the glasses to glare at him. "Okay, so I've a touch of stomach flu and, yes, I feel bloody awful. Your goin' on about it doesn't help, you know."

"If you're ill, mate, you should call off."

"Wha'? And miss nabbing Whitley and his mob? Not a chance. We've put too much sweat in this one to hand him over to another team."

Bodie pursed his lips disapprovingly. "Yes, but the Cow won't love you if you lose your lunch all over his new dancing pumps, will he?"

Doyle's look would have withered an oak tree. "Pack it in, Bodie. This won't last much longer; the drop's due to be made any time now. I can hang on till then."

Bodie regarded him doubtfully, noting the beads of perspiration, the lank curls and the general air of misery. Irritated by the worried frown, Doyle shoved the binoculars at him and snarled, "Don't say it! I told you I can handle it, dammit! You just keep your eyeballs peeled for that lorry and mind your own business."

The other man's face altered in a flash, losing the affectionate, somewhat indulgent expression he habitually wore when he was alone with Doyle. The blue eyes were chilly now.

"I was under the impression it was my business," he said quietly.

Knowing he had said the wrong thing, and feeling too wretched to be conciliatory, Doyle clung to his anger. "As long as I can do my job, what's it to you if I feel rotten or not? Just shut up and leave me alone."

Bodie's eyes widened at the venom in the smaller man's voice. "Christ, Ray, I was only--"

"I don't give a damn what you were doing," Doyle snarled. "You're always buttin' in where you're not wanted. I've had my fill of it, that's all."

Bodie stared at him for a long moment before turning back to the window, raising the glasses stiffly. "That's clear enough."

Doyle cursed himself under his breath. "Ah, Bodie, dammit! I didn't mean...." He trailed off as another wave of nausea caught him. With his view directed at the truckyard below, Bodie didn't notice Doyle's sudden need to sit down and clutch at his stomach.

"I still wish it'd stop raining," Bodie remarked, his voice even. "I could do with a bit of sun."

Doyle took a deep breath as the sickness eased slightly.

Bodie continued in a conversational tone, "Do good to get away from the city for a bit, too. Some peace and quiet, fresh air. Someplace with a jolly pub and some nice, friendly folk."

Outwardly, Bodie seemed to have dismissed their little squabble, but Doyle knew better. He had hurt Bodie and it would take some doing to soothe away that particular wound. But he didn't have the energy to tackle it now; it'd have to be chalked up with all the other minor cuts and slices he'd inflicted on his partner over the years. One day, he'd have to make it all up to Bodie. Not today, perhaps, and probably not tomorrow. Someday.

Anyway, Doyle thought irritably, it was Bodie's own fault for breathing down his neck all the time. Mostly it didn't bother him, but Bodie should know him well enough to realise when he felt sick, he just wanted to be left alone to suffer in peace, not be continually nagged over. Still, Bodie meant well, and he had been excessively nasty with him....

"Eh," Bodie said, "a truck's coming in. Yeh, that's it. There's Whitley."

Doyle clicked on the R/T as they headed for the stairs. "4.5 to Alpha. The fish is hooked. Over."

At the ground floor, they split up, taking opposite exits. In the neighbouring warehouse, Murphy and Sims would be taking their positions as well, blocking off the only other escape route.

It was over in a matter of minutes. Quick but not without a good deal of gunfire and momentary tension; Whitley's men didn't surrender without a fight. All in all, however, it was a fairly clean op as drug busts went--one of Whitley's men dead, one wounded.

Bodie helped Sims cuff Whitley and shoved him into the police van that had just pulled up. He was holstering his gun when he heard the cry.

"Bodie!"

The sound of it, high-pitched with pain and shock, cut through Bodie like a blade of ice. "Ray?" He sprinted across the yard to where Doyle had collapsed against the damp brick wall of the warehouse. He was in a crumpled ball of agony, curled in upon himself, whimpering and panting.

Terrified, it took a few seconds for Bodie to unwind the quivering form to search for injury, fully expecting to see a flower of red blossoming over the white tee shirt. There was nothing.

Dizzy with relief, Bodie leaned his forehead against the rain-wet curls. "What is it, sunshine? What's wrong?"

Doyle clutched his stomach, his face ashen. "I don't...know. It hurts...oh, Bodie...it hurts. I can't...."

"Shhhh." Bodie held him close as he called on the R/T. "Murph, get an ambulance over here quick. Doyle's in trouble."

---

APRIL 16

"I've been informed that 4.5 is doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances," Cowley commented gruffly. "Not that he rates such good fortune."

Bodie didn't reply. At the moment he wasn't feeling particularly charitable towards his partner either. Doyle had given him a real scare and he resented the fact bitterly.

"According to his physician," Cowley continued, "he'll be out of commission for several days at the least, perhaps longer if the infection gives them any problems." He shook his head in disgust. "Whatever possessed the man to let it go on so long? A burst appendix is no laughing matter, Bodie."

"I know that, sir," Bodie said evenly.

Cowley glared at him. "So where were you, 3.7? You're supposed to be his partner, aren't you? Couldn't you see something was wrong?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie replied carefully, holding his temper in check. The last thing he needed right now was a scold from the old man; he blamed himself enough as it was. "We HAVE been quite busy lately, sir. I knew Ray was ill, but he kept passing it off as a touch of flu."

Not that Bodie had believed it for a minute, but there seemed little advantage in pointing out what a stubborn little bastard his partner could be, and that he had more hair than sense when it came to staying on the job. Cowley was well aware of that.

Cowley sighed. "Well, at least the operation was completely successfully."

"At least," Bodie muttered resentfully. The damn operation had been the reason Doyle had held off so long--damn near too long--keeping Bodie at bay with a poisonous tongue to prevent him from dwelling on his partner's obvious discomfort.

"What was that, 3.7?" Cowley asked suspiciously.

"Uh...nothing, sir." Then, with a touch of defiance, "But I did request relief several times and you insisted we remain on station."

Cowley cleared his throat uncomfortably and pulled off his glasses to clean them with a tissue. "Point taken. Yes, well, it all turned out better than we deserved. And next time Doyle takes ill, he'll know to report it, or I'll remove his hide along with his appendix."

Replacing his spectacles, Cowley began shuffling through the files on his desk. "In any case, it worked out for the best. We put a stop to Whitley's import operations and 4.5 is out of danger. Matters might have turned out worse."

They might, indeed, Bodie thought angrily. By the time Doyle reached hospital, his situation had been critical. It had been touch and go for quite some time, and Bodie was still trying to deal with the strain of those nerve-wracking few hours. Raymond Doyle was doomed to hear a few choice words on the subject.

"However," Cowley continued, "4.5 will be incapacitated for some time. That leaves you at rather loose ends, doesn't it, 3.7? Perfect for a little project I've had in mind. As the last operation was satisfactorily completed and nothing else of urgency presents itself, I've decided to put you to use on an investigation of a more personal nature."

"Sir?"

"Ordinarily, I wouldn't waste an operative on what is no doubt a trivial matter, but this case does interest me. There's something odd about it, and I'm curious to see what's at the bottom of it. Three weeks ago, a childhood friend of mine contacted me in the hope I could be of help. His son disappeared nearly a year ago and he has been unable to obtain any satisfactory answers from the local police."

"A missing person? Not in our line, is it, sir? Unless he has diplomatic connections."

"No, there's nothing like that involved. Andrew Campbell is a respectable businessman with comfortable means, but far from wealthy. Conservative politically, but unconnected with the government in any way other than paying his taxes on time.

"His son, David, was a student at the University of Edinburgh, majoring in anthropology and sociology. His marks were acceptable but not particularly outstanding. A perfectly normal young man by all accounts; quiet, a bit shy, but hardly either a loner or troublemaker. The only record of disciplinary action against him was for hobbling a goat in the headmaster's study."

Bodie smiled. "Not exactly a left-wing radical, then."

"Hardly. He was to begin his last year at University this past fall, and already had a fellowship lined up to work with a Dr. Bitsmen in Australia. Last spring, he was working on a thesis on insular cultures. To this end, he arranged to spend his summer vacationing on Summerisle. He never returned."

"What do the authorities have to say about it?"

"Summerisle has a population of less than five hundred; they seem to have no need for a constabulary. Lord Summerisle's family has owned the island for four generations, since his great- grandfather purchased it in the last century. He functions as justice of the peace. According to him and to the inhabitants of Summerisle, David never arrived in the first place. They have never heard of David Campbell. He had planned to travel to the island by boat--it has no airfield, or even much terrain suitable for landing a plane--but there are no records of young Mr. Campbell engaging transportation on the mainland."

Bodie shrugged. "So he went somewhere else. It happens. Kids drop out, run away, lose themselves on purpose. Excuse me, sir, but it seems the most likely explanation. Perhaps he ran into a bird and she--"

"Perhaps," Cowley cut in smoothly, "but Andrew doesn't think so. He is positive his son did go to Summerisle. The police, however, tend to agree with your theory."

"And you think he's right? That something's happened to the boy?"

Cowley frowned. "Not necessarily. But when I did a bit of research, I discovered a few unsettling facts about this island. This isn't the first time someone has disappeared in connection with Summerisle. I don't like coincidences."

He located the file he wanted and opened it. "Over six years ago, a Detective Sergeant Neil Howie flew a seaplane to Summerisle to investigate a report on a missing child. It was assumed at the time that his plane was lost at sea. However, no debris was ever found and the day he left was perfectly clear and calm. Moreover, Neil Howie was an expert pilot."

"And the missing child?"

"Was never missing according to the villagers. They knew nothing of the business. The investigation was closed, listed as 'death by misadventure.'" Cowley handed the file to Bodie who studied the enclosed photo. The man in the police uniform was stern and unsmiling, looking distinctly prim and priggish. But there was something in the eyes that was vaguely disturbing; a man who courted suffering. It reminded Bodie of paintings of burning saints and crucified martyrs. He closed the file uneasily.

"The island, where is it, sir?"

"Off the west coast of Scotland. It is small and isolated, just barely within our national waters; the farthest west in the Outer Hebrides chain. There is little, if any, contact with the outside, and hasn't been for centuries. The British government remains essentially out of their affairs for the simple reason there has been no call for their services; no demand for National Assistance, Health--nothing at all. They don't even have automobiles to licence. The people keep to themselves, as they have done for generations; the very reason for young Mr. Campbell's interest in the place. Have you ever heard of Summerisle, Bodie?"

"Not that I recall, but there is something familiar about the name...." He snapped his fingers. "Summerisle apples. That's where I've heard it."

"Indeed. That is their primary export. The island is located in the Gulf Stream and the mild climate, combined with a richly volcanic soil, seems to account for their amazing success with fruit." He opened a desk drawer and took out an apple which he offered to Bodie. "Summerisle apples are exported all over the world. They are considered a delicacy; worth ten times the price of a regular apple."

Bodie policed the fruit on his sleeve. "Looks like an ordinary apple to me."

"Yes, but you're more likely to find it at Fordham and Mason than on a fruit pedlar's cart in market street."

Curious, Bodie sank his teeth into the fruit and chewed appreciatively. "Very nice."

Cowley glowered at him. "I didn't require a taste test, 3.7. It's fortunate that wasn't evidence."

"Just digesting the facts, sir," Bodie grinned and continued crunching away.

Cowley shook his head despairingly and continued, "Something else I find rather intriguing is the fact that, except for the physician who trained in Glasgow and returned to the island to set up practice, there is no record of anyone moving away from the island in over fifty years."

Bodie shrugged. "Perhaps they're happy there."

Cowley looked at him sharply, surprised by the comment. He had been concerned about Bodie for some time now; the man seemed vaguely restless. Sometimes he suspected Bodie was only staying in CI5 for Doyle's sake; that he'd lost his heart for the job around the time Marikka Schulman was killed. Cowley wasn't too worried at present, however; sending that as long as he held Doyle, Bodie would be right there in "leading strings."

"In any case, I've decided to send you up to nose around a bit. You can leave tonight."

Bodie straightened in his chair. "What? Tonight, sir? But--"

"Tonight, 3.7," Cowley said firmly. "The sooner you go, the sooner you'll be back to do some real work."

"Does it have to be tonight, sir?" Bodie protested. "It can't be all that urgent. Besides, it still seems out of our line. A waste of time--"

"Have you forgotten I am the one who decides what is suitable of CI5, 3.7?"

"No, sir. But--" He opened his mouth then closed it again.

"What is it, Bodie?" Cowley snapped.

Bodie regarded him sheepishly. "It's Doyle, sir. I know he's out of danger and all, but I'd...I'd just as soon hang about for a day or two, just in case."

"That's a bit overprotective, isn't it, 3.7?" Cowley growled, but he was thawing and Bodie saw it.

Grinning cheekily, Bodie replied, "Well, it was you who pointed out I didn't look after him well enough, sir. Just following orders."

Cowley snorted, amused in spite of himself. "4.5 is in capable hands. I doubt if your presence will improve his condition--particularly if it includes alcoholic binges in his hospital room."

Bodie's eyes twinkled, sensing he had won. "You'll never forgive us for that broken scotch, will you?"

"An entirely different matter," Cowley bit back. "Oh, very well. You can leave Tuesday morning. But don't expect to make a habit of delaying your assignments for personal reasons."

"Oh, no, sir. Would I do that? Of course not. Thank you, sir."

"Don't press your luck, Bodie. Just take that file and get out of here. Give 4.5 my regards."

---

Doyle was in a foul mood. He was running a slight fever, his incision burned and ached from surgery and, most of all, he hated being flat on his back in hospital. Having to face an understandably irate Bodie while flat on his back was even more galling. It didn't help that he had a definite suspicion that Bodie had every reason to be furious with him.

"I swear, Doyle, you've got to be the most obstinate, thick-headed prat in London. You must've had SOME idea it was your appendix."

"No," Doyle got out through gritted teeth. "I told you, I didn't think it was all that bad."

"You didn't think at all, more like it." Bodie paced the narrow space between the wall and the bed, becoming more wound up by the second. For once, at least, Doyle was forced to lay still and listen. It was a relief of sorts, being able to release some of the pent-up anxiety on the cause of it. "What if one of Whitley's goons had got a bead on you when you doubled over like that? What if they'd got away 'cause you couldn't hold your position? Not to mention the minor fact you let it go on so long you could've died as surely as if they had pumped ten rounds in your gut. Christ, Ray, don't we take enough risks as it is? Or are you pitchin' for Martyr of the Month? Hang on a bit and I'll run round an' light a candle for you."

Doyle flushed angrily. "I said I'm sorry; drop it, will you?"

"Oh, you're sorry, eh? Well, that's all right then. Here I thought you expected a pat on the back for bein' such a brave boy."

The sarcasm stung. "What the devil do you want me to say?" Doyle snapped. "I fucked up, okay? I could've got you or one of the others killed out there. Do you think I need you to point that out? I'm a rotten human being and should eat worms and die?"

Bodie paused, half-smiling at the furious form on the bed. "Nah, mate, you'd probably have me diggin' the worms for you. And stop scowling; if your face freezes that way, you'll scare all the birds." He sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching out to dislodge a curl that had adhered to Doyle's forehead. "We'll let it go for now, then. Perhaps I did go over the top a bit, but the next time I say you're sick, sunshine, you'd better listen to me, right?"

Doyle jerked his head away from the touch. "Leave off, damn it. Stop fussing. Who the hell do you think you are anyway, giving me lectures! Lot of nerve you have--"

"I thought I was your partner," Bodie cut in coldly.

"Yeh, well, sometimes you act more like a bloody sweetheart!"

Bodie immediately stiffened, facing paling. "Why did you say that?"

Doyle was too frustrated and irritated to pay much attention to Bodie's reaction. At the moment guilt was making him uncomfortable and therefore rash with his comments. His mind kept flashing a picture of Whitley drawing a line on Bodie, himself unable to raise his own gun to stop him. Right now, he just wished Bodie would go away until he could get a grip on his bruised and shaken confidence.

"What did you mean by that crack?" Bodie wouldn't let it go.

"Stop smothering me, that's all! Get off my back! Stop hangin' around like a mother hen. I've had enough of it."

Bodie stood. "All right."

Doyle chewed on his lip, already regretting the harsh words. They weren't even totally true. "Bodie, wait--"

"You're right," the other man said calmly, picking up his coat from the back of the chair. "You need to get some rest." His mask was back in place, solid and impenetrable.

"Bodie--"

"Take it easy, Ray." Bodie's parting smile was brittle and just a little wishful.

---

The weather turned even nastier that evening. Bodie spent a frustrating half-hour trying to close a window that had obstinately stuck three inches open, sending freezing gusts of wind and rain through his already damp bedroom. He finally surrendered, afraid he would wind up breaking the wretched thing and sound every alarm at headquarters. He wasn't in the mood to explain to a sniggering security chief that he couldn't manage to shut his own window.

He showed a spare blanket into the crack to keep out the worst of it, and returned to his clammy bed, not bothering to kid himself that it was more than the smallest part of his insomnia. He'd slept in mud-choked ditches before, waking up only long enough to dispose of the newest crop of leeches. A slightly damp bed and a few chilly draughts was positive luxury in comparison.

Bodie knew after all this time, he should be able to take his partner's mercurial moods in stride. They were hardly anything new, and this one hadn't even been particularly bad up against some of the fireworks Doyle had tossed his way.

So why did this time hurt so much?

It couldn't have been that crack about him acting like a "sweetheart." You couldn't pay attention to particulars during one of Doyle's tongue- lashings--he didn't know what he was saying half the time himself. Besides, it was ridiculous. Perhaps he was a little over-solicitous towards his partner at times, but that was understandable. They were a team, weren't they? Good mates besides. But lovers? It was laughable to even think about.

It took a long moment for Bodie to realise he was thinking about it. And he wasn't laughing.

Impulsively, Bodie leaned over and snatched up the phone.

"Mr. Cowley? It's Bodie, sir...uh...no, I didn't notice the time. Sorry, sir. Oh, yeh, well I've been thinking about the investigation we discussed...yes, Summerisle. I've decided to make a start right away. This morning, right. Doyle? He's doin' much better an' all...no reason for me to hang about.... Yes, sir. I'll be in contact. Sorry again for waking you. Goodbye."

---

APRIL 17

This wasn't the first time Bodie had been in Scotland, but he had spent most of his time in Glasgow or Edinburgh or climbing his way out of the mountains during training missions. Unsurprisingly, it seemed spring was taking even more time showing up here on the northwest coast than it was in London. The sky was grey and sullen and water dripped from the eaves in listless monotony.

Leaving the train station, he hunched his shoulders against the chill wind that whipped around the corners of the stone buildings. He ducked into a tea shop to get his bearings. Finding an empty table against a wall, he parked his carry-all underneath. After ordering some tea and a sausage sandwich, he took out the file Cowley had given him and a map of the area.

The old mother who brought the tray caught sight of one of the photos spread out among the pile of papers.

"Oh my. That's puir Sergeant Howie, now isn't it?"

Bodie looked at her with interest. "You know him, then?"

"Knew him, puir soul. Lost at sea in that fancy boat-plane of his. Lord, it must be five years now."

"Nearly seven, actually."

"No? That long, ya say? Well, when you get a bit long in the tooth like meself, one year's verra like another. Was the Sergeant kin of yours?"

"No, ma'am. Did you know him?"

She wiped a smear on the formica table fussily. "Bless you, yes. He was of a habit of stoppin' in nearly every afternoon fer tea, unless he was on patrol o' course. Not like most o' the other coppers in the station--nice as they are--but spendin' way too much o' their times in pubs and dancehalls to my manner of thinkin'. Set a bad example for the young ones, I say. The Sergeant now, he was a decent, god-fearin' man. Quiet like. Not cheery enough for some, but I always said he had higher things on his mind than makin' fun and causin' mischief."

Bodie nodded solemnly, his expression giving room to suspect he'd never seen the inside of anything so sordid as a common pub. Taking in the neat suit and tie and the clear, healthy complexion, the old woman warmed to him immediately. Even if he was a Foreigner (anyone outside the town being foreign to her mind), he seemed a polite, respectful lad.

"What are you doin' with Sergeant Howie's picture, Mister...?"

"Bodie, ma'am." He slid his identification out of his inside pocket.

"My...police, are you?"

"Not exactly. But I am investigating a disappearance. Perhaps you could help me."

"Not the Sergeant's surely? Years ago, that was. And everyone knows his plane--"

"No, ma'am, not the Sergeant's." He located the photo of David Campbell and handed it to her. "Do you recall seeing this man?"

She took the picture, adjusted her spectacles carefully, and studied it. "No...no, I don't believe I have. Not from around here, is he?"

"No. He was on his way to Summerisle."

She snorted disapprovingly. "No one goes to Summerisle, laddie. Not if they have any sense. They don't take to strangers there, and we don't take to their kind neither. Heathens, the lot of 'em."

Bodie took the photo back thoughtfully. "Someone must go there, surely. If only to deliver the post--"

"They take care of all that theirselves, don't they. Send a packet boat once a week or so to pick up the mail. That's the most we see of 'em, except around harvest time. Not that they stoop to be bringin' their fancy apples through here, mind you. Most of 'em gets shipped farther south to folks willing to spend good money on such frippery. Summerisle apples, indeed! Fruits of Satan, I say. We're well rid of it."

"But they used to ship through here?"

"Aye, when I was a girl. The islanders would come into town for a day or two. Before the war, that was. An evil lot, all of 'em. Drinkin' and dancin' on the Sabbath." She pursed her lips in disgust. "An' doin' worse than that, if all be told."

"After the war, they found another market, then?"

"Aye, thank the Lord. That island never spells ought but trouble, Mister Bodie. If the young lad you're lookin' for was goin' for there, I say he deserved whatever he got." She looked at him coldly. "And I say the same to you. Look, I can't stand here nattering with you all day. Will you be needin' anythin' else?"

"No, thank you. I'm sorry for taking your time with all the questions." He offered his best smile. It seldom failed him, and this was no exception.

"Aye, well, I know you're just doin' you duty an' all," she replied, slightly mollified. "Surely you'll be wanting a wee bit of jam and cake for afters? I did up a fresh batch just this morning."

"Yes, that would be nice, thanks. Then perhaps you'll give me directions to the police station."

---

APRIL 18

Sergeant Hugh MacTaggart of the West Highland Police was less than pleased with his present passenger, nor with the detour he had been asked to make in his patrol.

"You're positive you want to be let off there? I can't guarantee how long I'll be, ya know. Could be two days, could be a week. And if the weather--"

"Are you sure there's no other way off the island? No boats to hire to take me to the mainland?" Bodie looked out the window of the sea-plane, beginning to doubt the wisdom of this. The sky was still grim and what little he could see of the odd islands and knolls through the leaden streaks of cloud didn't seem promising.

"You might convince someone to bring you back, but then again, you might not. They're a clannish lot, and stiff-necked with strangers. Especially uninvited ones."

"Then I'll have to depend on you picking me up in a day or two, won't I?"

The Sergeant scowled and banked the plane sharply. "Don't know as why you're stickin' your nose in at all," he mumbled.

Bodie ignored the grumbling. Being in CI5, he had become accustomed to stepping on toes. No way to avoid the implied insult in re-opening an investigation that the original investigators had been less than thorough.

"Have you been to Summerisle?" Bodie asked, hoping to get a little more cooperation from the closed-mouth copper.

"Aye, twice," came the short reply.

"And...?" Bodie prompted patiently.

"And what? I've been there twice, that's all. Wouldn't be goin' back now, if you'd read my report."

"Listen, Sergeant, I have read your report. Four times. It didn't take long; there's not much to it."

The man sent Bodie a resentful glance. "Not fancy enough for you big-time charlies, eh?"

"Yeh, that's right," Bodie growled. "I'm used to pink paper and gold embossing. Give me a break, will ya? You did your job, let me get on with mine. If your nose is out of joint, just be glad it's not your arse in a sling."

"Who the bloody hell do you think you are?" MacTaggart snapped. "Tellin' me I don't know my job! Some city punk disappears, and just because he was supposed to be headin' this way, we get all the flak for it. Well, I did my job, Mister Cee Eye Four or Five or whatever outfit you're with, and it's all in my report. Nothing! Because there was nothing to report. IF he was comin' here at all, there's no trace he ever showed up in Portlochie, let alone made it to the island. I talked to everyone at the wharf who might have chartered him a boat or even gave him a lift. No one goes out that far, except the fishers, and they don't go near Summerisle--the reefs are too dangerous around there for a large boat. The only ones who risks them are the Summerisle fishermen, and they've been sailing those waters for generations. Satisfied?"

"No," Bodie said bluntly. "What about the packet?"

The Sergeant looked surprised. "What packet?"

Bodie sighed. "I was told someone comes by boat from Summerisle every week or so to pick up the post."

"Oh. But that's from the island. Old Birch McDougal's been collectin' the mail for years."

"Did you talk to him? Perhaps Campbell got a ride over with him."

"Aye, I talked to him! I talked to all of them on Summerisle; even his Lordship himself. It's all in the bloody report, if ye'll take some heed to it!"

"And they say they'd never heard of David Campbell?"

"That's right. Why should they lie, I ask you? ALL of them?" He snickered, "But I suppose in your books I shoulda arrested the lot o' them for conspiracy. No proof, no reason." He shook his head. "You London coppers must spend a lot of time in court facing charges of false arrest."

Bodie smiled wryly. "I'm not a copper. And, no, that doesn't come up very often." He stared out the window for a long moment, recalling his partner's long and passionate lectures on police procedure. Not that Doyle wasn't above tossin' the rules in the trash bin on occasion; he'd just bite his tongue off before admitting it. Before he could start wondering how his partner was doing and fall to mooning over the jumble of emotions he'd pushed to the back of his mind, he turned back to the pilot.

"You said you'd been there twice. When was the first time?"

"Oh, years back. My old sergeant cracked up his plane, and we had to do a follow up."

"Sergeant Howie."

MacTaggart glanced at him, startled. "Yeh, that's right. Neil Howie. Let's see...1973 that was. How did you know about it?"

"Research, son. Didn't you think it odd that the island was involved in that, too?"

"Not particularly. It was only one stop of many on his patrol. We weren't even sure he was headin' there first. It's a big area, Mr. Bodie, an' the weather can be tricky."

"But it wasn't that day, was it? Clear and calm, wasn't it?"

MacTaggart shrugged. "For all we know, his ticker gave out. He was the type--all tension, uptight with ulcers. He and McCallum went to the island to check things out--" He broke off and looked at Bodie. "I take it you know why he was stoppin' there as well, since you know so much?"

"An anonymous letter about a missing child."

"Yeh, well, like most anonymous letters, it was a crock. Some nasty ol' biddy stirring up trouble most likely. The girl, Rowan Morrison, was there right enough, fit and healthy, and no one had seen sight of the Sergeant."

"And you never found any trace of the plane?"

"The patrols last anywhere from three to ten days, Mr. Bodie. We didn't even start worrying about him for some time. The wreckage could've washed up anywhere...or nowhere."

"What was he like, this Neil Howie?" Bodie asked curiously, wondering if MacTaggart's opinion would tally with the woman at the tea shop.

The tone of the question was informal, almost friendly. The sergeant relaxed a bit. Besides, he hadn't thought of his old superior in years.

"Neil was an all right sort. Bit of a prig, though. No, that's puttin' it mild. He was a bloody old maid. When he took a whiz he probably closed his eyes so he wouldn't sneak a peek at his pecker. Too, too pure for this mortal world, ya see."

"You didn't like him?"

"Did I say that? Like I said, he was all right. Narrow-minded and a bit self-righteous, but mostly he was fair enough. You could count on gettin' a decent shake from him, even if he didn't approve of your morals or drinkin' habits off the job. He might lecture ya ta bloody tears, but as long as you did your job, he took it no farther." As an afterthought, "He was a damned good copper, too. Knew what he was about, did ol' Howie. Hung onto somethin' like a bloody bull terrier until he got answers. Poor sod."

Bodie noticed with interest that the sky was lightening. Within a few moments, they left the last of the wispy clouds behind them and burst out into clear sunshine. Ahead of them, wide streaks of sun sliced through the bands of clouds high above. The plane dropped altitude and flew towards an island breaking through blue-grey sea.

"There she is. Summerisle."

Sheer, barren cliffs reached up from a churning, furious ocean.

"Looks formidable," Bodie remarked.

"Aye, from this angle, it is. These mountains here cut off the north wind from the rest of the island, though. Wait until we get in a bit further, then you'll see something."

Jagged rock suddenly gave ground to rolling hills that gradually turned to high pastures and bright green jewels of meadows. Black and brown specks soon resolved into peacefully grazing cattle, and a fluid patch of white became a herd of running sheep startled by the plane's engines. The orchards stretched in charming, harmonious rows, just beginning to blossom into pink and white. Wild roses rumbled over ancient, but carefully tended stone fences.

"It's lovely," Bodie commented, feeling the description inadequate, but unable to come up with anything more expressive. After the long, dreary winter, it was like looking down at paradise.

"Aye, it is that. What with the mountains and the Gulf Stream, spring comes earlier here. The winters are milder, too, from what I'm told. There's his Nibs' castle."

Set among softly curving orchards, with the sea to its back, the manor house was breathtaking. A line of poplars crested a windbreak against the ocean breezes, and the sinking sun reflected pink and gold in the latticed windows, mellowing the blocks of stone to a rose-grey hue.

Bodie wished suddenly that Ray, with his eye for landscapes and lovely things, was here to see this. He would love it.

"And there's the village. We'll land in the harbour by the jetty."

To Bodie's amazement, he saw that the gentle curve of the harbour was lined with palm trees, gracing it with the impression of subtropical splendour.

The village itself was small and cozy; brick and stone cottages jostled close together as if the island jealously resented giving too much room to anything without roots in the rich earth.

As the Sergeant banked the plane in a wide circle in preparation to a sea landing, Bodie asked, "What do you know of the Lord Summerisle?"

"Not a lot. Met him, o' course, during the investigations. Very educated, snobby but very posh manners; your typical long-nosed aristocrat. Bit odd, just the same. Not that you'd expect much different from the high nobs. I reckon they're all a jot strange when you come right down to it."

"What's odd about him?"

He wrinkled his nose uncertainly. "Dunno. Just is. You'd think a man with his kind of money, wouldn't hole himself up on an island for most of his life, would you now? 'Course it's just rumours, mind, but I've heard tell that the present laird's great-granddad didn't leave the mainland all on his own. They say he was crazier than a coot, with all kinds of strange ideas and ways." Bodie pondered that cryptic statement while they made the landing smoothly, kicking up only a few quick sprays of water.

"Well, here you are. They'll send a skiff in a few minutes, once they see the police seal on the plane."

Indeed, a dinghy was already making its way out to the softly bobbing aircraft.

"You say there's an inn in the village?"

"Aye. More of a public house, really, but they have a couple of rooms upstairs to let."

Bodie gathered up his belongings and stuck out his hand. "Thanks for the ride, Sergeant. Sorry for the interrogation. Nothing personal."

MacTaggart looked sheepish. "Aye, I know. Shouldn't be so bloody thin-skinned." He shook the offered hand. "Good luck to ya, Mr. Bodie. I'll be back round in a couple o' days."

Bodie smiled. "I'm sure I'll be more than ready to go. Bored out of my mind, no doubt. I've never liked chasing down dead ends, but ours is not to reason why...."

"That's surely the truth. Ah, here's your transport."

Bodie opened the hatch and stepped out on the pontoon.

The gristled old man in the dinghy pulled closer alongside. "You fellas wantin' to come ashore, are ya? This is private property, y'know. Ye'll need his Lordship's permission."

"The only means of getting it seems to be to ask him," Bodie pointed out. "And it's just me coming. The sergeant has other places to go." He moved onto the boat, easily keeping his balance against the swells. He waved to the Sergeant as the old man swung the dinghy around and began rowing towards the dock. A few moments later, the engine caught and the plane moved slowly out into takeoff position.

"His Lordship know you're comin'?" the old man said shortly as soon as he could be heard above the departing plane.

"He will when you tell him, won't he?" Bodie replied cheerfully.

The sun was just above the edge of the water now, and there was a warm, rosy glow over everything. Bodie felt very good suddenly, peaceful and content. A few days in this place wouldn't come amiss. He'd been wishing for sun and quiet, hadn't he? And the Cow was paying for the holiday! It would have been perfect except--he bit his lip, remembering exactly what had sent him scurrying off to Scotland even quicker than necessary. Stupid berk. If he'd waited another week until Ray left hospital, he might've talked Cowley into letting them both come--a kind of R&R mixed with light work. And Ray would've bloody loved this place.

He conveniently forgot that the last time he'd seen his partner he'd felt like choking him. And that Doyle had been about as friendly as a wounded hedgehog.

They'd work it all out. They always did, didn't they?

When the boat nudged against the dock, there were several men lining the edge, regarding him with a kind of bored interest.

"Who's this then, Barley?"

"Ask 'im yourself."

Bodie climbed up the ladder. "I'm Bodie. The Sergeant tells me there's an inn in town where I might find a room for a night or two. Could you point me in the right direction?"

"Only one direction, Mister Bodie. That's down the road. They all lead to the same place. Back where you started."

Bodie looked around the chuckling circle, eyebrow lifted doubtfully, wondering what the joke was. "Ah, well, I suppose I'll find it then." He handed a coin to the boatman and picked up his bag.

"Depends on what you're lookin' for," someone called out.

"If you even know," chimed another.

Bodie stopped and turned slowly around, eyes narrowed. "Besides a room for the night, what do YOU think I'm looking for?"

"Trouble," came one answer, grimly.

"The meanin' o' life," another offered sarcastically.

"A piece of tail," came the capper.

Amidst the roar of laughter someone else added, "With Willow MacGreggor, he'll manage all three!"

Bodie tightened his grip on his bag and his temper. It was nearly twilight now, the air becoming chill, and he was tired and hungry.

When the laughter died down, the man with the boat stepped forward a pace. "People come lookin' for all manner of things, Mr. Bodie. Sometimes they don't much fancy what they find."

"It's lucky I'm easy to please," Bodie returned lightly, and walked in the direction of the pub.

As he strolled up the cobbled street past the neatly whitewashed houses, something struck him as peculiar about the town. It was more than the absence of motors; he had been informed of that and had expected it. No, it was something more subtle than that. He experienced a small twinge of deja vu, as if he'd been here before, in his dreams perhaps.

The air was sweet, laden with pollen. Bodie sneezed explosively. Surprised, he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He hadn't suffered from hay fever since he was a child, but the island seemed to be positively bursting with life; the atmosphere thick with visible energy.

He was tucking his handkerchief back in his pocket when it occurred to him one more thing that was odd about Summerisle. There were no lines of wire connecting the houses, tying them together in the service of modern technology. No electric then, and no telephones. No television either, judging by the distinct lack of aerials adorning slate roofs. Beyond that, there was no noisy bustle that Bodie was accustomed to. Instead, there was a quiet, lazy hum, like a hive of constant bees. Lamps were being lit in various cottages, casting a mellow glow on the twilight outside the windows. The crickets were beginning their mating symphony, and ahead he could hear the cheerful piping of a flute soon joined by the teasing notes of a fiddle.

The lighthearted tune was coming pouring out from the open windows and door of the inn bearing a wooden sign with a face of a man sprouting leaves from his hair, nose and ears. The faded letters spelled out THE GREEN MAN. Light streamed out into the street and with it a jumble of voices and laughter in concert with the music.

As Bodie stepped over the threshold, the music died and the mumble of conversation faded. Feeling a little self-conscious, he strode boldly through the taproom to the bar.

"Good evening. I was told you might have a room I could use for a night or two."

The innkeeper regarded him suspiciously. "And who might you be then?"

"My name's Bodie." He smiled pleasantly, glancing around the comfortable, wood-panelled room. Dozens of curious, silent eyes looked back. "Jolly place you have here...or it was until I walked in. Didn't mean to disrupt everything."

Slowly the customers began talking among themselves again, and the fiddle player plinked out a lively melody, recapturing their attention once more.

Bodie turned back to the man behind the bar. "That's better. I've never considered myself such a wet blanket before."

Easing a bit, the landlord smiled back and drew a pint of beer which he put on the bar in front of Bodie.

"Ta, very much. I was just going to ask for one."

As he started to drink, the landlord offered. "I'm Alder MacGreggor, Mister Bodie. Don't know as if I can help you with a room. Not 'till you have a word with his Lordship. We don't get many strangers on the island, and I don't feel comfortable about takin' in just anybody, ye understand."

"Of course," Bodie agreed amiably, totally at sea, unable to fathom what the Lord would have to say about letting a room in a public inn.

MacGreggor explained, "I'm the proprietor here o' course, but the inn belongs to his Lordship. Everything on Summerisle does. It's private property, ye know, and we don't get many--"

"Strangers," Bodie completed, "yes, I know. Well, how do I go about getting an appointment to speak to Lord Summerisle? It's a pleasant night, but I don't much fancy dossing down under a shrub."

A chair scraped back on the wooden floor. "I'll give ye a ride, if ye want." A short, stocky person moved up to the bar. It took a second for Bodie to register the fact that the muscular figure belonged to a woman. "I'm Sorrel, his Lordship's gillie." At his puzzled look, she added, "Gamekeeper, groundskeeper...general dogsbody. Do you want a lift or no?"

"Uh...yes, indeed. If it's no trouble. May I leave my gear here?" he enquired of MacGreggor, who nodded. Bodie smiled brightly at the toadish woman. "Shall we be off then?"

Following Sorrel out, he collided with someone coming in. Giggling, she wiped away the splashes of cider that had drenched her from the impact with the pitcher she'd been holding.

"I'm terribly sorry--" Bodie began, but his apology faded as he realised exactly what he'd run into.

She was lovely--no, she was literally gorgeous. A long mane of silky blonde hair framed a face that was so sensual and earthy, his body reacted almost as quickly as he took it in. Her skin glowed with health, peach and rose in the lamplight. While past the first blush of youth, her body was supple and lush. Her green eyes sparkled with unabashed appreciation and open hunger as she took stock of Bodie, gaze measuring him hotly from head to toe, settling without coyness on the fullness of his crotch.

Dipping her finger into the bounty of her cleavage to catch an errant dip of cider, she brought it to her lips and sucked salaciously at the tip, curling her tongue around it provocatively. "Never mind, I've caught it all, haven't I?" Raising her lashes, she gave him a blinding smile. "You're a pretty one, aren't you?"

Bodie found himself reacting to her open lust, easily forgetting the crowd that watched the little scene with interest.

"That's rather like the pot calling the kettle hot, isn't it, love?"

"Well, when your kettle's ready to boil over, pretty stranger, give Willow a call."

"Bodie," he said softly. "I'm Bodie."

"Bodie...." She repeated his name like a love word.

An impatient call from outside interrupted a blooming relationship. Recovering himself, Bodie gave her an apologetic smile. "I've got to go. Perhaps I'll see you later?"

"I'm certain you will." Her eyes promised he would see all of her.

Another irritated summons and he shrugged helplessly. Impulsively, he leaned over and kissed the full, pouting mouth. Whistles and stamping feet brought him back to himself, and he grinned sheepishly at the laughing witnesses. He offered them a good-natured salute and hastily popped out the door.

It wasn't until he climbed into the horse-drawn cart beside Sorrel that he remembered the comments of the fishermen at the jetty. So that was Willow, was it? He grinned. The visit on Summerisle was looking better and better.

"How far is the castle?" Bodie asked the driver.

"Not far. Half an hour or so."

As the cart clattered out of the village and off the cobbled street onto a road made of rock and sand, Bodie tried to initiate a conversation, hoping he could get some information before he saw the Lord. "You said your name is Sorrel?"

"Aye."

"Pretty name. I don't think I've heard it before."

Bodie couldn't see her face in the darkness, but her voice was clearly amused. "No need to try the sweet tongue on me, Mister Bodie. I don't like men. Never did, never will. But don't worry, that git Willow doesn't appeal to me either, so ye'll get no competition from me if your tail's in the wind for her."

Bodie couldn't honestly say he had been too worried by that threat, but it seemed less than diplomatic to assure her of his unconcern in the matter.

He tried a different approach. "It's a lovely place, this. Lived here all your life, have you?"

"O' course. Everyone has. So what's your business here?" she demanded straight out. "A bit far out o' the way to be stoppin' in for a visit."

"Just a formality," Bodie replied evasively. "Bookwork. Nothing very important."

A snort of pat disbelief greeted his remark. "A few thousand miles o' travel is nothing, I suppose? Stop shoveling the muck, laddie. Yo're a copper." It was not a question.

Bodie kept his eyes on the now pitch dark road, hoping the horse knew his way, since the rein lay lax in the woman's lap.

"Not a copper, no. Just a civil servant. My job is to tie-up all the loose ends. Very boring, but it keeps the computers happy."

"What loose ends?"

"We seemed to have misplaced a young man. The government census bureau can get a bit stuffy about such things. No death certificate, you see. Have you ever heard of a young fellow by the name of David Campbell by any chance?"

"No," she replied shortly.

"You're positive? About twenty, dark hair, grey eyes? I've a photo I can show you once we get to the manor."

"No point in it. Any strangers on Summerisle would be common knowledge, whatever they looked like. He's not been here, Mr. Bodie."

"I see. Well, I was afraid of that; Sergeant MacTaggart said the same. Odd you don't remember even hearing the name, though, during his investigation."

There was a short silence. "Oh, yes, that was the name of the lad they were looking for last year. But I thought that case was closed."

"Unfortunately, no. He hasn't turned up, you see. Perhaps some of the fisherman found some boat wreckage or something like that?"

"Current's too strong for that, Mister Bodie. Sweeps right on by us. The undertow could've carried him to South America."

"Yes, Sergeant Howie--"

"Howie?" The question was sharp, surprised.

Bodie wished he could see her expression. "Yes, Howie," he repeated carefully. "Of the West Highland Police. Do you know him?"

A short, tense pause followed. "No, I don't know as I do. I thought you said his name was MacTaggart."

"Sergeant MacTaggart handled the investigation on David Campbell. Sergeant Howie was here a few years back to search for a missing girl. Do you remember him now?"

"Sorry, I'm very bad with names."

Bodie felt a sudden tingle at the base of his spine, what Doyle would have called a copper's itch. She was lying and he knew it sure as he knew the Cow's favourite brand of malt.

"Strange," Bodie mused, "on a place as small as this, you'd think you'd remember something as upsetting as a missing girl. But then they found her safe and sound didn't they?"

Disgruntled, the woman snapped the reins against the mare's back, increasing the speed to a slow trot. "If you're talkin' about that to-do a few years ago, Rowan was never missin' at all. A storm in a teacup. Pity about the Sergeant, though. I heard tell he smashed up his aeroplane during patrol. Never came here, though, so the name went right out o' my mind until you brought it up. I have my doubts if he'd intended on comin' to Summerisle at all. Why would he bother with such a trifle when he had other important business? We take care of our own here, Mister Bodie. Always have done."

"That's good to hear," Bodie said heartily. "Wish everyone did the same. Make my job easier, wouldn't it?"

"And just what is your job, Mister Bodie?"

"Like I said, Miss Sorrel; tying up loose ends. Looks like this one will be dead easy, won't it?"

"Which loose end are you set on clearing up," she demanded coldly, "David Campbell or Neil Howie?"

Bodie let the silence stretch for a suitable time before saying very quietly, "I never mentioned the Sergeant's name was Neil, Miss Sorrel."

Without noticeable pause, she put in glibly, "Not that many Howie's lost around here. Don't lose them every day, do you? The only one I know of was Neil Howie."

"Five minutes ago, you didn't even recall his last name."

Again the slick reply. "That's right; the memory's a funny thing, ain't it now?"

"Hilarious," Bodie muttered. He was feeling vaguely uneasy; the darkness and the unnerving silence broken only by the rhythmic clop of the hoofs, the chirping of crickets, and the occasional lonesome song of a nightingale. Once he could read the stirring of a jungle night or the quiet rustle of savannah grass and know instinctively what lurked there. But the years of civilised city life had corroded his senses-- or perhaps honed them to different dangers.

This lush, semi-tropical enigma was totally unexpected, and he wondered why Cowley's usually thorough files had been so unspecific. The quick mention of volcanic soil and warm sea currents had hardly prepared him for this. Even in the blackness of a moonless night, he could feel the stirring of life as the cart moved on the road; smell the heavy odour of apple blossoms on the soft breeze; feel the intimate whir of a moth as it flicked past his cheek. The entire place simply reeked and sang with vitality, in direct contrast to the barren islands they had flown over that afternoon, brown and dull with chilled heather and bracken. But they had been more in line with what he'd expected of the Outer Hebrides, which were not renowned for their gentleness. In fact, it was a standard joke in the squad that Cowley sent unruly agents there to teach them a lesson.

Bodie grinned into the darkness, determined to take all the punishment Cowley was willing to dispense, if this was the hardship he was expected to endure. Having anticipated a cold, damp, ungiving island, he had dressed in thick cords and shirt with an even heavier roll neck sweater topped off with a jacket. He had long since doffed the coat and was considering removing the sweater. It felt more like a June evening in London than mid-April in the dreaded north.

Again, with a regretful twinge, he thought of Doyle. The very smell and taste of the island reminded him of Ray; a kind of abandoned sensuality that beckoned subtly. Just thinking of it got him going, remembering the jagged mountains that had concealed the lush island from view. Like Doyle. At first glance, rough and a bit off-putting, then incredibly attractive and seductive. Warm and alive with sensual surprises as strange and exotic as palm trees in the Outer Hebrides; more exquisite for the very fact you had never expected it.

Before he could fall any deeper in his reverie, he spotted an orange glow up ahead.

"Is that the manor house?"

"Aye," she answered, obviously still irritated by his earlier questions, or perhaps by her poor show in answering them. "And ye best straighten yoursel' up a bit; his Lordship is one to be respectful of."

Bodie lifted an amused eyebrow towards the shadowed lump beside him. While he wasn't in his best attire, he prided himself on being neat and presentable if at all possible--unlike his oft- times scruffy partner, who he usually had to remind to straighten his tie or tuck in his shirt. And considering what he remembered of his driver's shapeless coat and trousers, the remark came off as somewhat ludicrous.

As they passed through a wide stone arch, the road smoothed to a velvet thrum under the wheels of the cart, indicating a careful pavement that stretched into a graceful circle in front of the house. Pulling the horse to a halt outside the torch-lit doorway, Sorrel turned to him.

"Someone else can take ye back when you've a mind to go. I'm done for the night. Clover might be headin' into the village later."

Wondering if everyone on Summerisle was named for one plant or another, Bodie hopped down from the cart. "Thanks for the lift, Miss Sorrel. It was kind of you."

With a snort, she chuckled at the horse and drove away.

Torn between amusement and irritation, Bodie stepped up to the wide doors and dropped down the heavy metal knocker. It was a strange shape; a round but oddly squatted face representing a vaguely evil-looking sun. He dropped it again, with more force, realising that a house of this size must present some problems with hearing the knocker.

The door opened in fairly short order to a man dressed in a formal starched shirt and kilt.

"Good evening, sir. May I be of some assistance?"

"Thank you. I would like to speak to Lord Summerisle, if I may."

"Very good sir. May I tell his Lordship what this is in reference to, sir?"

"I'd rather explain that myself, actually. My name is Bodie."

"Yes, sir. If you will be good enough to wait here, please?"

Bodie entered and found himself faced with an imposing hall, complete with impressive staircase and intimidating coats of arms on the high walls. Several wooden benches lined the entrance, and Bodie sat down as the Butler indicated a seat, making it plain the stranger wasn't exactly a first-class guest. Bodie settled down with a wry smile; the story of his life--stuck in the foyer. He permitted himself to wonder what Doyle's reaction to this would be, missing his partner's acerbic comments. Ray was at his best abusing the class system; could rise to heights of poetic obscenity on the subject. Bodie had never let it bother him, figuring he could out-snob the best of them when he wanted to, but Doyle's East End socialism had always amused him.

While awaiting his landlord's pleasure, Bodie studied the huge wall with interest. The last time he'd seen such a house, he'd paid 50p for the privilege, and it hadn't been half as enthralling. This was like turning a century back on the clock, and it was authentic, no reconstruction or artful display for tourists. This was an actual, lived-in and enjoyed home. He noticed a pair of muddy boots in the corner, complete with matching handprint on the wall where the owner had leaned to tug them off. There was a nice coat of dust on the sills and a few wayward cobwebs drifting on the high ceiling, catching the torchlight as they moved stirring the air.

No picture-perfect tourist trap, this, but a working household where important things took precedent over scrubbing baseboards. Bodie found himself warming a bit to the unknown Lord who didn't expect his servants to clean a twenty-five foot ceiling every other week. He couldn't be a total tyrant; maybe Doyle wouldn't have disapproved so much after all.

Bodie stood as the butler reappeared.

"His Lordship will see you in the great hall. Follow me, sir?"

Great hall, Bodie thought drily. How much greater could it get? After trailing the butler through several smaller parlours and anterooms, he soon discovered the answer to that question.

The room was enormous. Breathtakingly beautiful with a ceiling that arched thirty-five or forty feet at the apex. The flagged stone floor was covered with smaller islands of deerskin, leopard, and other various animal rugs, grouping the antique furniture into more comfortably intimate circles. The room housed a great organ with pipes reaching half way to the ceiling, a grand piano near a wide section of french doors that led onto a terrace, and a harp sat gracefully at its side. Illuminated by what seemed to be hundreds of candles, large oil lamps with crystal globes hung at measured length along the walls, adding to a steadier light. A fire burned merrily in a stone fireplace large enough to roast an ox. Four winged armchairs faced the hearth, and from one of these Lord Summerisle rose to greet him.

"Ah, Mr. Bodie, I believe? It is so pleasant to see a new face. Do come in."

Bodie took the offered hand and found the grasp firm but not challenging. "Thank you for seeing me at such an inconvenient hour, Lord Summerisle. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Nonsense! It is we who are delighted to see you. We've become very dull, I'm afraid, having so few visitors to our island."

Bodie was a little surprised at the warmth of his reception, and found the Lord not to be at all what he had expected. He was first struck by his height, for Summerisle was well over six foot tall, with a magnificently tapered body that wore the tartan kilt and ruffled shirt with true flair. While probably in his late forties or early fifties, he had a crackle of energy about him that made it impossible to pin down any age. His hair was dark and cut fashionably long, with highlights of copper and silver that glinted in the firelight. But it was his eyes above all else that mirrored the true force of his personality. Large and dark brown, they were incredibly direct and burned with a compelling inner flame.

"Come, Mr. Bodie, do sit down. But I am forgetting my manners. Allow me to present Miss Rose. My dear, this is Mr. Bodie."

Joining the Lord beside the fireplace, Bodie turned his attention to the woman seated in one of the armchairs. She was lovely; a cool, mature blonde, with self-contained light-blue eyes that measured him with calm interest. Bodie bowed over her hand, kissing it.

"Miss Rose, it is an honour. Your name is very appropriate, I see." As she smiled at the compliment, Bodie wondered if there was no middle ground on Summerisle as far as women went--were they all either bad-tempered frumps like Sorrel, or runners-up in the Miss Universe contest?

"You are very kind, Mr. Bodie. And a very clever one. All women have a weakness for handsome men with charming words. But you must save your flattery for someone more suitable."

"It's only flattery when it's not the truth, ma'am, and that's obviously not the case here.

Seeming gratified by the exchange of compliments, Lord Summerisle offered a chair to Bodie. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Some wine, perhaps?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Miss Rose is our village schoolmistress," Summerisle commented as he poured the drink and handed it to Bodie. He sat down and looked at Bodie inquiringly. "Now, Mr. Bodie, to what do we owe the honour of your visit to our out-of- the-way island?"

"Nothing of any great concern. It's more of a formality than anything else. I'm investigating the disappearance of David Campbell."

"Ah, yes. The missing schoolboy. I was under the impression he would have been located by this time. It was, what?...nearly a year ago since the police were here from the mainland. And have there been no traces in all that time?"

"No, milord. Nor was he quite a schoolboy. Mr. Campbell was twenty at the time of his disappearance."

"Really?" Summerisle looked puzzled. "I was under the impression he must be younger. Twenty, you say?" He shook his head. "I don't want to sound unsympathetic, of course, but a man of that age is surely capable of taking care of himself. How can you be sure he wishes to be found?"

"The only fact we know for sure is that he intended to come to Summerisle."

"Unfortunate, as that fact is obviously faulty. He never came here, as doubtless you have already discovered. Nor had we ever heard of the poor man until all of this came up. Are you certain that he met with accident or even that he was in the area? Perhaps he simply...left the country. Young people often take fancies in their heads to 'see the world.' I hear California is very popular now. Have you checked with the American authorities? The...uh...FBI, isn't it?"

"Yes," Bodie replied, patiently. "There is no record of his leaving Britain. He had a passport, but he left it at home."

"Yes, I see. A most puzzling situation. So what is your interest in this affair, Mr...or should I call you sergeant or maybe lieutenant?"

"Just Bodie is fine. We don't have rank in my service." He took out his identification and handed it to Summerisle.

"CI5. I don't believe I'm familiar with it."

"Just another branch of the civil service," Bodie replied easily. "We mostly do follow-ups; mop-up operations, and the like. Clear out as many loose ends as we can that the other services don't have time for."

"Like this case," Miss Rose put in softly.

"Precisely. For legal and insurance purposes, you understand."

"So it's not a priority investigation?" she prodded gently.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the cautious look of warning directed at her from the Lord, and again Bodie felt the "copper's itch," the certainty there was more here than was apparent at first glance.

"No," Bodie said with an apologetic shrug. "I'm afraid not. It's basically a waste of time; I'm sure you're right and the young Mr. Campbell is now riding a surfboard in L.A. But paperwork is paperwork, you see."

"Of course. But you'll probably be leaving us tomorrow, I imagine?"

"Unless I can hire a boat to return me to the mainland, I'll have to wait for Sergeant MacTaggart to come back in his plane. Could be several days."

Summerisle's eyes were suddenly hard and opaque. "Don't worry, I'm sure we can arrange transport-- "

"There's no rush, is there, milord?" Miss Rose cut in smoothly. "A few days on the island could be very relaxing for you."

Again, Bodie intercepted a quick exchange of glances. Whatever Miss Rose was trying to communicate to Summerisle must have been understood for he said very smoothly, "Quite right, my dear Rose. We must convince Bodie to stay much longer. But I suggest we discuss it over dinner. You will join us, won't you?"

Bodie hesitated. His clothes were hardly suitable for the formal atmosphere of the castle; it was obvious that it was customary to dress for dinner.

Understanding, Summerisle put in heartily, "Don't mind all that, dear fellow. We'll waive being proper for once. But perhaps you would care to freshen up before we dine? Broom can show you to a chamber."

Bodie murmured his thanks and followed the servant out of the hall. He was hardly out of the door before he heard Miss Rose's light voice speaking eagerly to Lord Summerisle, but he couldn't catch what she was saying.

---

The dinner, like everything else on the island, was lush and delicious. For dessert Miss Rose presented him with a single, perfect apple.

"Tradition, Bodie. Accept this, the most precious fruit of our island, as a sign of our hospitality."

Something about the gesture, the handing of the ripe red apple with an open palm, gave him an uneasy sensation. Inwardly amused at flashes of superstition tied up with thoughts of Eve, he took it from her with a smile and bit into it. She couldn't have looked less like a wicked witch or an evil stepmother. The apple was even better than the one he had tasted in London; sweeter somehow, but with a special tang that left an odd, not unpleasant, aftertaste.

Soon after, they returned to the great hall for coffee and brandy.

"You live in London?" Miss Rose asked. "Your family must miss you on these long trips."

For some reason his mind flashed back to a surly Doyle, flat on his back and making it clear he was fed up with his partner's unwanted attentions.

"No, I've no family."

The blue eyes considered him over the rim of her glass. "No wife? No children?"

Bodie smiled. "No. I'm a confirmed bachelor, and reasonably quick on my feet."

The conversation continued on a more general note, with the Lord discussing his new strains of fruit and Rose occasionally putting other delicately probing questions on Bodie's personal life. He found it somewhat unsettling, more because of the intensity of her expression as she studied him than for the questions themselves. He was beginning to feel like a bug on a pin.

Of more interest, however, was the skilful way Summerisle managed to dodge his own questions. Hoping to get the same reaction he had elicited from Sorrel, he casually dropped Sergeant Howie's name, and found the Lord nimbly turning the conversation to a discussion of the dangers of flying and the treacherous weather in the area.

When the butler, Broom, announced that the cart was waiting to return to the village, Summerisle accompanied him outside.

"Well, Mr. Bodie, I do hope you will find reason to enjoy your stay on our island. When you have cleared up all this distressing paperwork, do come back to the castle for a proper tour. You must see my conservatory and my experimental orchard."

Bodie offered his thanks, and as the driver urged the horse into a brisk trot, reflected that Summerisle was a very slick customer indeed. It wouldn't do to underestimate him. Bodie was convinced that something was going on here on the island of Summerisle, but he couldn't be positive yet if it was more than the natural suspicion and the ethnocentricity of an isolated people. He was a stranger and, moreover, a stranger asking uncomfortable questions that came very close to be accusations. It was perhaps only natural for them to be uneasy with him. He could be reading too much into their reactions.

Nevertheless, he was now more determined to find out the answers than he had been when he set out from London.

After a few attempts to start a chat with the driver and receiving desultory replies, he gave up for the moment.

Feeling strangely mellow and languid, and putting it down to the dinner and the brandy, he slid down in the seat and let the easy rocking of the cart lull him to a light doze.

He was startled awake some time later as the wheels left the comparatively smooth path and met the rough cobblestones of the village street. They pulled up outside The Green Man, and the driver left Bodie there without saying a word. Shrugging, Bodie went inside.

Although past eleven, the taproom was still crowded, but the atmosphere was different, quieter with a sense of hushed expectancy. Someone was strumming a guitar in soft, melodious chords. Bodie wondered if they had been waiting to see if the laird would toss him out on his ear, or graciously permit him to stay.

"You're back then," MacGreggor, the innkeeper, said needlessly. "His Lordship sent word you'd be stayin' with us."

Surprised by that, Bodie replied noncommittally, "For a day or two."

The landlord smiled mysteriously. "I've had yer bag taken up to the room at the top of the stairs. First one on the right, it is."

"Thanks. I'll--"

"Have a drop of hot cider first, Mr. Bodie. See you sleep sound an' all."

Bodie started to refuse, already feeling drowsy, but the mug was in front of him, and the spicy odour was compelling. He nodded his thanks and took a drink. Like everything on Summerisle, it was rich and almost shockingly delicious. He downed the mug and nearly asked for another, but feeling the delayed warmth in his stomach as the potent mixture began to take effect, he decided against it.

"I've also taken the liberty of fixin' a bath for ye," MacGreggor added as he turned to the stairs. "Figured you'd like a good long soak after your trip. Hot water's in the jars by the tub. The bath's at the end of the hall."

It sounded good. In fact, it sounded irresistible.

At the top of the stairs, he paused to take his bearings; found his room easily by the fact his bag was at the foot of the bed, his clothes neatly hung up on a rack in the corner, and the rest folded in stacks in the top drawer of the chest. Picking up the clean towel and flannel draped over the bedpost, he made his way to the bathroom. His eyes widened at the sight of the bathtub. It was an ancient, freestanding, clawfooted affair, narrow but deep with a sloping back. MacGreggor had already filled it with about eighteen inches of cool water, to which Bodie now added the steaming jugs that lined the wall until the level and temperature was to his taste. Hanging his gun on the hook behind the door with his sweater carefully draped over to conceal it, he undressed and stepped into the water, easing down as his skin adjusted to the heat.

Bodie let out a satisfied sigh as he sank into the steaming water, head falling back to rest against the enamel edge. It felt delicious. How long had it been since he'd last had a bath; a long, slow experience instead of a hurried shower on his way to a date or the job? He couldn't quite remember. Ol' Doyle now, there was the boy for baths. He loved 'em, the sybaritic little sod. Bodie had lost count of how many times he'd caught him lolling around in the tub, curls screwed up tight in the wet heat, face flushed with pleasure. Yeah, Doyle would've ate this up, he would. Sell his soul for a bath like this.

Feeling blissfully drowsy and comfortable, Bodie let his mind drift on the vision of his partner, recalling the last time he'd seen him like that. Hardly more than a month ago.

Bodie had pounded on the door for five minutes, before giving up and using his spare keys, irritated because he knew Doyle had been expecting him, and guessing exactly why he hadn't bothered to get up and let him in. Sure enough, Doyle was up to his chin in water, feet braced against the other end, hands propped behind his head.

"We have a date in thirty minutes," Bodie had reminded him with amusement, closing the door with his foot as Doyle growled something about letting in a draught. He loosened his tie against the damp heat, and leaned casually on the wash basin, enjoying the view.

Doyle hadn't bothered to open his eyes yet, just smiled and said lazily, "No rush. They'll wait, won't they."

"Don't be so sure. Went to a lot of trouble to set this up. Even gave you the prettiest one, didn't I?"

"That'll be a change," Doyle commented without malice.

"Well, it'll all go for nothing if you show up lookin' like a prune."

Grinning, Doyle offered a dripping foot. "Check for wrinkles."

Bodie shuddered. "Hideous."

"Feels good anyhow." Doyle took a deep breath and rubbed a sensuous hand down his front. Bodie watched in fascination; through the murky water, he could see a definite twitch from Doyle's cock. Feeling a responsive heat of his own, Bodie turned hastily to the mirror, wiping away the coat of mist and pretending to inspect his image.

Doyle chuckled thickly. "Don't worry, sunshine, you're worth waitin' for."

"Naturally," Bodie retorted with his customary superior grin, "but the question is, what about a boney little sod like you? If I pulled the plug on you, you'd go right on down the drain." He turned back around, trying to avoid staring at the most intriguing section of his partner's anatomy. "Com'on, mate, get a move on."

"All right, all right," Doyle agreed regretfully. Oblivious to Bodie's discomfort, he soaped a flannel and proceeded to wash, sliding the foamy cloth down his thighs and between his legs. The green eyes were so catlike, the look so concentrated, Bodie wouldn't have been surprised to see him using his tongue to clean his fur like any self-respecting tom.

"I'll wait outside 'til you're finished," Bodie said abruptly. "Help meself to a drink."

It was so natural, so unconsciously sensual...so DOYLE, Bodie felt a bit silly about fleeing from it, but he couldn't deny his helpless reaction to the voluptuous expression and the warm, slick flesh so artlessly displayed. Doyle was such an unselfconsciously sexy bastard, in another century he would've been burned as a witch. Bodie was conscious of being under his spell, and realised he had been for a long time.

He thought of Africa and counted his blessings that Ray had never taken that route. He was lucky to get away with such blatant exhibitionism in the safe, cold civilisation of London. In Angola, no one would have hesitated in making him live up to the promise he seemed to instinctively make with his eyes and the movements of his body. Even now, Bodie found it difficult to pass up the opportunity Ray presented. Old habits die hard, and even years and miles hadn't dimmed the attraction of male sexuality.

But habit and inclination was no match for affection, and he cared too damn much for Ray Doyle to risk it for something that Doyle would probably want no part of. For all Ray's sensuality, he'd never given a clue that his interest could lie in that direction. Christ, it'd taken months before Ray would even let him touch him without jumping like a scalded cat. True, he didn't jump anymore--at times even appeared to enjoy the careless pats and impulsive hugs, with an amused tolerance--but that was a long way from responding positively to anything more serious, and Bodie didn't have the guts to play the odds when he wasn't prepared to lose his stake.

Now, with such thoughts on his mind and the silky feel of the water on his body, Bodie was lulled into a gentle arousal. He slid his hand down his chest to his groin, offering his cock a pleasant stimulation. The oil lamp flickered in the mild breeze through the open window, creating a sweetly secret island of pleasure without the harsh reality of electric light to spoil the surreal effect of the moment.

It took a few seconds for him to realise it hadn't been the window that brought the stirring of air; it had been the door.

Willow, quiet as a whisper, was standing with her back against the now shut door. Startled, and resultingly embarrassed, Bodie searched for the towel, only to find it hanging on a bar that was just out of reach.

"I expect you'd like some more hot water," Willow smiled.

Bodie swallowed, unable to find his voice, feeling a fool and fighting his ingrained modesty. Willow's appreciative gaze on his body was anything but modest.

"Why, you're blushing, my pretty Bodie!" she teased. "ALL over."

Feeling helplessly inadequate under her stare, he shrugged. "I wasn't expectin' company," he managed weakly.

She stepped closer. "No? You should've been." Slowly she poured the water from the pitcher she carried into the bath down near his feet, and he felt the warm swirl of liquid curl up towards his groin.

"Too hot?" she asked sweetly, green eyes glowing with mischief.

His mouth felt dry, conscious of his still hard cock bobbing in the warming water, as if it was applauding the improvement in temperature. He cleared his throat nervously. "No...it's fine."

"Aye, I can see that." She laughed at his discomfort. "Not all of you is shy."

Seeing the humour in the situation, Bodie grinned back. "Doesn't know the meaning of the word. Can't take it anywhere."

"But YOU are embarrassed, poor boy. You shouldn't be; you are very beautiful, you know. You make me wet below just lookin' at you. Embarrassment is silly, pointless, isn't it? Our bodies know what is natural to them. I've never seen an animal blush or try to deny their nature." Her gaze swept down the wet length of him. "You are ready for me, and I for you."

Bodie was easily past being embarrassed; the look in her eyes was enough to banish that, her words just fueling the flame. Once open sexuality entered the picture, the situation was one he could handle.

She stood back and pulled her blouse from the confinement of her skirt, stripping it over her head to reveal her bare torso. Shaking back her mane of honey hair, she unbuttoned her long skirt and let it drop to a puddle on the floor. She was naked beneath.

If he'd considered her lovely before, now he revised his estimate upwards. She was a wickedly luxurious siren; a lewd Aphrodite against the backdrop of a rough plaster wall. The lamplight wove a golden web around her, drawing his eyes to the seductive shadowed hollow between her legs. Her breasts sprang pertly off her ribs, tipped by nipples that looked freshly sucked by other mouths. Her lushly rounded hips swayed for him, picking up the best of the music from the taproom below. She posed for him wantonly, drawing in his admiration and lust like sustenance, caressing her belly and hips, toying with the tips of her breasts to increase their allure.

His breath caught in his throat as she slowly approached him and boldly straddled the width of the tub, spreading her legs wide to open herself to his view, until her slender thighs rested on the rounded edges.

Willow began humming to the music that wafted up from the pub; a slow, sensuous song with an insidious beat that seemed to match the pulse in Bodie's groin. He reached up for her, running his hands over her breasts and down her stomach, then back up to finger the protruding nipples, pebbling under his touch. She moaned in delight and the very sound of it seemed to be part of the music of Summerisle; of joyful abandon to sensation.

For an instant Bodie nearly drew back from the overload of senses; a part of him uneasy with it. He felt exposed as if he were being watched by eyes other than Willow's, and for some reason remembered the crowd in the pub below. Fancifully, he felt the lust he was experiencing was not all his own, but was being fed on by others in some manner that was vaguely unclean.

The eerie feeling faded as Willow stroked his face, slipping her hands into the water to caress his chest and pinch his nipples. Helpless under the renewed stimulation, his hips arched up, striving to close the tantalising few inches between his aching cock and the hungry, teasing opening suspended above. His hands moved to her spread thighs, watching the pearling of droplets on her skin as his wet hands smoothed over her. They glinted like diamonds in the wavering lamplight. Eyes fastened on her centre, on the secretly mysterious place of woman, so often explored, so eternally intriguing. He slid his hands under her, cupping her behind, and moved both thumbs against the wetness of her vagina, brushing over the quivering tip of flesh she presented to him so eagerly. She gasped in ecstasy, tossing back her head.

Bodie sat up and bent to use his mouth to give her more pleasure. She accepted it as her right, moving rhythmically in time to the lapping of tongue, clutching greedy fingers in his short hair to hold him to her. She cried out and the guitar throbbed in accompaniment.

After a moment, she pulled back his head and smiled down at him, sated but wanting more. She moved her legs over the side to join him in the tub, pushing back so her knees rested on either side of his hips. She kissed him slowly, offering her tongue to suck as she lowered herself onto his swollen cock. He groaned at the beautiful relief of it, thrusting up to meet her.

She rode him expertly, using inner muscles to alternately tease and milk him, until unable to bear more, he growled and jerked forward, thrusting hard and taking the last few points of pressure he needed to burst into an incredible climax that left him spent and shaken.

---

Bodie could feel the sun on his bare back. With a little groan, he rolled over, blinking against the light that poured through the open drapes. Judging by the angle, it had to be late morning.

He felt groggy, finding it difficult to think. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up cautiously, trying to pin down the strange dream he'd been having. It was all a confusing blur of fire and chanting and an exotic sexuality. He'd been having a lot of dreams lately, all of them containing the same elements, and all of them difficult to capture in the light of day. He could almost remember making love to Willow in the dreams, but it was Willow with dark hair...or Willow with curly hair...or perhaps it wasn't Willow at all.

He noticed the two empty mugs on the bedside table. Had too much to drink, that was it. That damn cider was deceptively intoxicating; didn't make you feel drunk exactly, just pleasantly muzzy and languorous. But it must pack quite a wallop just the same.

Bodie shook his head, trying to clear it so he could concentrate for a change. Funny, it didn't feel like a proper hangover. He'd had enough experience with those to know the difference. True, he had the same fog in his brain, but none of the accompanying aches and pains.

There was something, nagging his conscience. Something he was forgetting. If he could just clear his mind of the cobwebs for a second, he could get a grip on it--

Footsteps on the stairs burst his train of thought like a half-formed bubble.

"Ah, lover, you're awake, I see." Willow came in carrying a tray. She put it down on the table and sat on the bed, hand sliding under the quilt to move over his body as she kissed him. He felt a stir of response as he always did when she touched him, but she playfully resisted his attempt to pull her down on the bed with him.

"Not now, naughty boy. I've things to do. I've tables to scrub and the week's bread to bake."

He released her reluctantly and she held out a thick slice of toast for him to bite.

"There now, that's your reward for being good," she said, laughing.

Taking it from her, he took another bite. "Did you make this?"

"O' course."

"It's wonderful."

"You've butter on your chin." She licked it off for him.

"You make that as well? The butter, I mean?"

"Ummm," she nodded, plumping the pillows up behind him. Bodie watched her as she reached over to pour his tea, his expression troubled.

"Willow, what day is this?"

"Tuesday," she answered absently, dropping a leaf in the tea.

"What's that?"

"Mint. Don't you like it?" She smiled at him. "My, you're a curious one this morning."

Bodie didn't answer, forehead knotting in concentration. "Tuesday.... You say it's Tuesday?"

"Yes." She handed him the cup. "Now drink up your tea so I can get on with my work."

Abstracted, he sipped the liquid, eyes lost on something faraway. Then suddenly he dropped the cup back on the saucer with a clatter. "Tuesday? It can't be. No, that can't be right."

She sighed. "Don't you remember, love? Yesterday we went to the glen. The day before we walked in the orchards. Saturday we had a picnic at the cove. This is Tuesday and I have to stay home and bake bread or you won't have any toast for breakfast tomorrow--"

"Willow, that means I've been here five days!"

"Six," she corrected, unperturbed, "if you count the evening you arrived."

Bodie pressed his fingers to his temple, totally confused. "I don't understand. I...I remember doing all those things, but it doesn't...it CAN'T have been five days!"

"Time flies," she quoted with a giggle. "What's the matter, Bodie?"

"Cowley'll kill me," Bodie muttered, wondering how the hell he was going to explain being out of touch this long to the old man. But right at this moment, he couldn't even remember why Cowley had sent him here in the first place.

"Bodie, what's wrong?"

Ignoring her, he quickly gulped down the tea, hoping the shot of caffeine would help snap him out of it, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I've got to go, Willow," he said with determination. "Where are my clothes?"

"Hanging up. Go? Go where?"

"Home. Back to London, love. I'll have to--" Then he remembered MacTaggart and the plane. A wash of relief swept over him and he relaxed with a grin. So that was it. MacTaggart hadn't returned from his patrol; he had said it might be several days.

Clinging to that bit of sanity helped a great deal. For the moment there, he'd been really shaken, unable to fathom how the days had slipped by without notice, how he'd lost himself so completely. It still disturbed him, but now that he knew he hadn't been missed yet, it didn't seem to matter quite so much. He'd puzzle it all out later.

Willow patted his cheek maternally. "Nonsense. You don't want to go anywhere."

"Well, not right at this minute, I suppose. But soon. The plane should be back any time."

"D'you mean the police aeroplane? Oh, that was here yesterday morning."

Bodie stiffened, his stomach knotting sickly. "What are you talking about?"

"Just that. It's been and gone. What's wrong with you, Bodie?"

He grabbed her wrist. "Why didn't you tell me!"

Eyes wide, she tried to pull away. "Stop it, you're hurting!"

He let her go, his own hand shaking. "I'm sorry, Willow. But you have to tell me what's going on. Why didn't you tell me the plane was here?"

"But you knew it. You spoke to the Sergeant yourself; told him you'd be stayin' on. Don't you remember?"

A smothering sense of panic settled on him. "No, no I don't." But he did. God help him, he did remember now. He just had no conception of how or why it happened.

Willow began kneading the taut muscles in his neck. "Why would you want to go, Bodie? You like it here, don't you?"

Still stunned, he replied automatically, "Yes, of course. But I have to leave. I have to go home."

In spite of himself, her touch was calming him, making the worry fade away.

"This is home, lover."

"No...." A wave of dizziness caught him and he fought it back. "I'll get a boat today. Someone at the wharf will have to take me to the mainland...."

"Bodie," she murmured, moving around to kneel behind him, stroking his back and sliding her palms around to smooth his chest, as if gentling a skittish animal. "You want to stay. Stay with me."

"No," he repeated stubbornly, although he was already finding it difficult to focus on what he was denying. His head was swimming in the sweet, soft pattern of her caresses.

"There's nothing for you there," she whispered in his ear. "No one for you there."

"You're wrong. There's someone...." Ray, he thought desperately. I need to see Ray, talk to him. He'd explain all this craziness. Figure out what was happening to him. Ray would have the answer.

"You're not needed there, Bodie. You're not wanted there."

He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering Ray's face as he'd last seen him: angry, impatient, disgusted; telling him to leave him alone, that he'd had enough.

"No one..." he whispered, suddenly hurting out of all proportion to the cause.

"That's right," she said quickly, picking up on the pain in his voice; her tone so very sympathetic, so very loving. "No one for you there, my Bodie. But here, here you're wanted. I want you--we all do. We need you. Avellunau needs you; Nuada needs you. Summerisle needs you."

Bodie took a shaky breath, a sob choking him. "No one's ever needed me. Not really," he said brokenly, while part of his mind stood back in shocked amusement at this uncharacteristic orgy of self-pity.

"Now we do. Don't go, Bodie. Stay for Avellunau. Stay with me."

The strange names she murmured meant nothing to him, but in some way they sounded familiar; as if he'd heard them only recently. Had he? In a song? A chant? He couldn't think, couldn't remember, couldn't bring himself to care.

She tugged him down on the bed beside her and he moulded her tightly against him, suddenly realising how unimportant it all was. Cowley, CI5, all of it. It wasn't real. They were something he had dreamed along with the bonfires and mystic ceremonies.

And Ray?

Ray hadn't wanted him. It was simple as that.

---

APRIL 27

Cowley came through the door like a Gaelic tornado.

Doyle, barely four days out of hospital and still feeling a bit weak in his pins, stepped back just in time to prevent the door banging him in the nose.

"I want to know what the devil is going on, 4.5, and I'm not in the mood for any double-talk."

"Eh?" Totally baffled, Doyle nearly gaped at him.

"Did you and 3.7 have a row?"

Doyle blinked. "What?"

"Come on man, it was your appendix that burst not your eardrums. You heard the question well enough!"

"I don't understand, sir. What's the problem with Bodie?"

"That's what I'm asking you, damn it all!"

Hoping to glean some sense from all of this, and wondering why Cowley's voice was more than faintly accusing, Doyle tried to calm him down. "If you'll just explain what's going on, maybe I can--"

But Cowley was having none of it; his temper pushed beyond sweet reason. "I asked you a question. Did you and Bodie have some kind of childish squabble?"

"Uh...no, sir."

"Don't lie to me!" Cowley paced the room angrily. "There's something behind all this. Ordinarily it would have taken wild horses to get that partner of yours away with you hardly two days out of surgery. What did you say to him?"

"Me?" Doyle protested defensively, beginning to get a little annoyed at the insinuation he was the cause of whatever trouble Bodie had got himself into this time. "What've I got to do with it?"

"What else would send him tearing off?"

"Knowing Bodie, almost anything," Doyle answered tartly. "Listen, I don't even know what you're talking about. What's going on?"

"Och, if I knew that, would I be here asking you?"

Doyle could only remember a very few times he'd seen Cowley this furious and frustrated. But this was obviously about Bodie, and everyone but Bodie knew how important that one, infuriating operative was to their controller.

"So you didn't have a fight with him?" Cowley demanded.

Doyle thought back to the uncomfortable scene in the hospital. It had bothered him ever since, but he wouldn't exactly qualify it as a fight. While he might have been a bit sharp with Bodie, it wasn't a tenth as bad as some of the rows they'd had during their partnership. Both of them were stubborn men, and even if Doyle's temper was quicker to flare, Bodie's exploding point usually wasn't too far behind. They'd even had a couple of punch-ups, as far as that went.

"Honestly, sir, maybe we weren't getting on as well as we normally do, but there was nothing said to cause any problems." He took a deep breath. "Now will you please tell me what this is all about? What's happened to Bodie?" A frightening thought occurred to him. "He's all right, isn't he?"

"He won't be when I get my hands on him," Cowley growled.

Doyle let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. He should have realised Cowley was more mad than worried. If Bodie was hurt, it'd be the other way around.

"He's in Scotland, isn't he?" Doyle said, having heard on the grapevine that the old man sent him on a rather private investigation. It was quite a joke among the agents that Bodie had finally pushed the old man too far and he'd made good his threat to pack him off to the Outer Hebrides. Doyle, although he missed his partner's cheerful company terribly during his convalescence, found it rather amusing himself.

"The point is, 4.5, he's STILL there. He was supposed to take three or four days; it's been well over a week."

Alarmed, Doyle said, "Maybe he's in trouble. Have you--"

"No," Cowley cut in. "I've already sent Dawson up to check. He returned this morning." He stuck his hand in his inside coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. "He brought this back with him."

Doyle took it, recognising the scrawled signature at the bottom. He read it and sat down very suddenly.

"What do you make of that?" Cowley demanded.

Doyle stared down at the paper, re-reading the few hurried lines, then looked up at Cowley, plainly stunned. "A resignation? I don't understand."

"So you knew nothing of this?"

"How could I?" Doyle felt kicked in the gut. What the hell had happened. Where had he been when the world turned upside down?"

Doyle stood and shoved the paper at Cowley. "No, I don't believe this for a minute. Something's wrong."

"According to Dawson, your partner wouldn't agree. He's having a bonny time, enjoying the sunshine and smelling the flowers. Bodie's found himself a lass, and looks to settle down and raise apples." Cowley's tone was distasteful.

"A bird?" Doyle snorted. "No way. Bodie wouldn't ditch the squad for a girl."

"No?"

Doyle swung around angrily, knowing Cowley was thinking of Ann Holly. "We're talking about Bodie, dammit. BODIE! He's not the type."

"To fall in love? You've a very cynical view of your partner, 4.5. I'd say of the two of you, he's the more romantic."

The sarcastic tone was beginning to grate on Doyle. "Yeh, he's a fantastic weekend Casanova, but come Monday mornin', he's ready to move on. Nah, something's wrong."

Cowley gestured impatiently. "I don't have the time to stand around speculating on 3.7's love life. Nor do I care one way or another, as long as it doesn't affect CI5. I thought you might have some insight into this mess, but since you don't--"

"Wait a minute," Doyle stopped him as Cowley made as if to leave. "What are you going to do about this?"

"Do?" Cowley seemed surprised. "Why, nothing."

"Nothing! But--"

"Surely you don't think I believe this, do you?" Cowley tapped the paper in his pocket. "No, Bodie has some bee in his bonnet for the moment, but the bucolic country life is hardly for him. He'll be back in a week or so, tail tucked between his legs. And I intend to see it stays there."

Doyle tended to agree with Cowley in principle, but there was still something very wrong here.

"If he's just skiving off, it doesn't explain the resignation, does it? He wouldn't go that far, would he?"

A troubled look passed over Cowley's face, but was gone in an instant. "Another one of his gambits, no doubt. Perhaps he fancies I'll be so pleased to see him back, I'll be willing to forget he left me shorthanded when I can least afford to be. I don't have time for all this nonsense. With you laid up for at least another week, Carson hobbling around on a broken ankle, and at least four separate dignitaries choosing to visit London in the same week--Damn the man! What does he think he's playing at?"

"I think I'd better go find out," Doyle said thoughtfully.

Cowley's head snapped up. "You'll do no such thing. I've already wasted one agent's time and energy checking up on our lost lamb just to discover he's acting the wolf we already knew he was. Bodie will come back in his own sweet time...and he'll wish he'd taken the long way round."

"But I'm going to be off the job anyway," Doyle said reasonably. "Why shouldn't I--"

"Kindly remember why you are off work, 4.5," Cowley cut in icily. "To recuperate from an operation that should have been minor--except for the fact you were too idiotic to take care of it until it became major. Your physician tells me you were very lucky to be alive. Don't push it."

"I'm all right now," Doyle protested.

"Hardly 'all right' or you wouldn't be on mandatory sick leave. I'm not having you risk a setback in your progress by chasing after your partner. Obviously, you can't be trusted to watch your own health, and I can't afford to have you off the job any longer than is absolutely necessary."

"But--"

"That's an order."

Knowing Cowley was none too pleased with him as it was, Doyle didn't push it any further. "I suppose you're right," he mused, avoiding his boss's suspicious look. "Bodie'll be back when he gets enough of it."

Satisfied by the casual attitude, Cowley nodded. "I must be going. I have an appointment with the minister. You see you mind the doctor's orders, 4.5." Then, as if realising Doyle had capitulated a bit quicker than usual, he added, "And mine as well. Or I'll nail your hide on the wall right beside Bodie's."

Doyle shrugged. "No problem, sir."

He saw Cowley out and waited only until he saw the car pull away from the kerb, before grabbing up his jacket and heading out the door.

Dawson's latest flat was only a couple of miles away, and the Escort made it in record time. Doyle rang the bell several times, then pounded on the door impatiently.

"All right, all right...'ang on, will you?" came the mumbled answer from inside as the locks snicked back. Dawson's drowsy face peered around the door. His hair was sticking up and he was dressed in a tattered yellow bathrobe. "Oh hell, it's you. What do you want?"

Doyle pushed inside. "What going on with Bodie?" he demanded without preamble.

"Oh shit, Doyle, can't you have a heart." He closed the door and yawned widely. "I've been up almost forty-eight hours, travelled a few thousand miles in various public conveyances, none of which had any creature comforts of any kind, and I just got through a grilling on the subject from the Cow. Can't you just ask him?"

"I'm asking you," Doyle snapped. "You saw Bodie, talked to him. What's wrong?"

Dawson scratched his chest and yawned again. "Nothing I know of. He looked okay to me."

"He sent you back with his resignation, dammit! Don't tell me nothing's wrong with him!"

"So?" Dawson shrugged, longing to get back to his warm bed and make up for lost sleep. "People resign, y'know. Get fed up. Find somethin' better. What's it matter to you, anyhow?" He grinned drowsily. "You act like a jilted girlfriend."

Doyle's patience dissolved. He grabbed the robe and shoved the other man back against the door. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dawson was totally awake now, and more than a little peeved at the aggressive treatment. He'd never liked either Bodie or his temperamental partner in the first place. It was difficult to like them; they certainly never went out of their way to be exactly lovable to anyone. And if you were one of the younger members of the squad, as Dawson was, having tales of their derring-do shoved down your throat didn't help matters. Truthfully, Dawson had been quite pleased to discover Bodie had feet of clay just like the rest of them.

Now, he looked at Doyle coldly. "Let go, Doyle, unless you want to find yourself right back in hospital."

Belatedly realising he was going over the top a bit, Doyle stepped back. "I just want some answers, Dawson. You can save your cute comments. The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the sooner I'll be out of your hair."

"Okay, but you just lay off snarling at me. If you treated Bodie like that, it's a bloody wonder you've kept a partner this long."

"Just get on with it," Doyle barked.

"There's not a lot to tell. Told me he wanted to stay there. He seemed happy as a friggin' clam, and who could blame him. You should get a look at the bird he was with. Enough to have a bloke's tongue hangin' out. She knew how to use it, too. I had the feeling she would've had it off with me right then and there, if I didn't have to get back on the plane." A puzzled look came to his eye. "Funny thing, though, I got the impression Bodie wouldn't have given a damn if I had."

"I thought you said he was in love with her?" Doyle scoffed.

"No, I didn't say that exactly. But he must be, mustn't he? He's stayin' with her, ain't he?" He shrugged. "Maybe he was just sure of himself."

Well, at least that sounded like Bodie. He'd never be the jealous type to begin with.

"What did he say to you?"

"Just that he was chucking the job; gave me the letter for Cowley. Didn't have much time for anything else. I'd come on the police plane and Cowley wanted a quick report back. Didn't see any reason to hang about anyway, once it was clear Bodie was all right. Oh, the place was pretty enough an' all, but I could never abide the country. Weird, though, seeing all those flowers and trees blooming at this time of year. And palm trees, for Chrissake."

Doyle thought quickly. "The job Cowley sent him on; did he finish it up?"

"The way I understand it, there wasn't much of a job to it. Just double-checking on some missing kid. Friend of Cowley's. I asked around a bit about that as well, but it seemed pretty clear cut there was nothing to it."

"Do you still have the file?"

"Sure. I told you, I just got back a couple hours ago. Haven't had time to get it to records yet."

"Give it to me; I'll take it back for you."

Dawson hesitated. It wasn't exactly procedure, but then again, the information was hardly classified material. He dug through his still unpacked suitcase and fished out a folder. "Here; have a ball."

"Thanks." Doyle started for the door, but stopped. "Dawson? Do me a favour. Don't mention to the Cow that I was here, okay?"

"What do I owe you a favour for?"

The green eyes made it clear the favour would keep his jawbone in one piece.

"Oh, all right. Just get out of here and let me get some sleep will you?"

Doyle did so gladly. He had a train to catch.

---

APRIL 28

Finding the means of getting to Summerisle proved more difficult than expected. He couldn't, after all, go to the West Highland Police and ask for transport as Bodie and Dawson had. Doyle wasn't there in an official capacity, and the chances of Cowley getting wind of his activities were too risky. Much to his frustration, however, he discovered that trying to charter a boat to take him to the island was far from a simple proposition. Whatever interest he aroused by flashing a wad of cash, quickly evaporated when the word Summerisle was mentioned. Even more frustrating, none seemed willing to give a logical reason for declining. The most he was able to pry from any of them was that the island wasn't a smart place to go.

After reading the puzzling file on David Campbell and Sergeant Neil Howie, Doyle had already gathered that much.

He was beginning to wonder if he would be forced to show his hand by going to the coppers after all, when one of the fishermen made the laconic observation that "T'packet's due." A little more persistency revealed that he was talking about the mail boat from Summerisle that came to the mainland every two weeks.

Grateful for the fortunate timing, Doyle was waiting for it when it arrived the next morning and made certain he was a passenger at its departure by means of sheer aggression and flashing his identification. The captain of the little boat was far from happy, but it was just as obvious he wasn't sure how to handle the situation.

"His Lordship won't like it," he grumbled as they set off.

"Pity about that," Doyle responded mournfully. "Will I be beheaded, d'you think? Or just let off with a light horsewhipping?" He regretted his flippancy as soon as it was out. Antagonising these people wasn't going to help anything. Nor was showing up with a chip on his shoulder the size of a football.

Doyle found the entire idea of Summerisle irritating. The fact that someone could own an entire island and everything on it, smacked too much of feudalism, and the "his Lordship" crap didn't help any. From what he'd read in the file and heard in Portlochie, the inhabitants of Summerisle were passed down from Lord to Lord like a bloody silver tea set. But Doyle had to remind himself he was going there to bring Bodie back, not stir up a rebellion. He'd have to keep his prejudices to himself. And his temper.

The effort to do so wouldn't be made easier by his physical state. He was totally fagged out, exhausted by the trip and the worry over Bodie. It wouldn't take much for him to fall asleep on his feet. Discovering it would take several hours to reach the island, he found a dry section of deck and, using his jacket as a pillow, dozed off.

It seemed like only moments later that he was awakened by the cry of seagulls and the scraping of the boat against the dock. Doyle scrambled to his feet and grabbed his carry-all.

"You'll need to see his Lordship," the captain called as Doyle jumped off, onto the wharf.

"Fuck off," Doyle snarled, still groggy, eyes watering in the sunshine. He started down the street towards the main part of the village. Dawson's report had said that Bodie was staying at an inn called The Green Man. In a place this tiny, it shouldn't be hard to locate. It wasn't. He saw the sign across the green as soon as he reached the post office at the end of High Street.

Ignoring the curious stares he received, Doyle took a short cut across the grass and entered the pub. It took a moment for his eyes to adapt to the cool dimness after the blinding sun outside. But he saw Bodie immediately.

His partner was sitting by the open window, chair tilted back, feet up, sipping contentedly from a pewter mug.

"Bodie?" he asked quietly.

The blue eyes looked up, registering his presence. A sweet smile of uncomplicated delight spread over the handsome face.

"Goldilocks! Come an' have a drink!"

Doyle stopped still, dropping his bag limply. He wasn't sure what he'd expected--rushing in to rouse him from a horrible bout of melancholy, perhaps--but not this careless, almost absent- minded welcome.

"Did the ol' man send you lookin' for me?"

Doyle shook his head numbly. "Bodie--"

"You came on your own then?" Bodie seemed pleased at this. "That's terrific, mate. You'll love it here. Come on, don't just stand there. MacGreggor, bring my partner here a drink!"

A man came from around the bar, looking Doyle over with dislike. "Mr. Bodie, I don't think your friend here will be stayin' long. No doubt, he'll want to get back to the mainland straight away."

"Nonsense," Bodie scoffed, dropping his chair back to the floor and jumping up to steer Doyle over to the table. "I've missed you, Angelfish. You look...." He paused, making a closer study of Doyle's pale face. "Well, you look like you need to sit down. MacGreggor, where's that drink?"

The landlord hesitated, then beckoned to the teenage boy who was dividing his time between sweeping the stone floor and staring at Doyle.

"Here, lad, you'd best get up to the castle and let his Lordship know we have another guest on the island." He smiled coolly at Doyle. "The Lord likes to greet visitors personally, ye see, Mister...?"

"Doyle," Bodie answered for his partner happily. "Ray Doyle. Best mate I've ever had."

"O' course." The landlord gave the boy a shove towards the door. "What'll ye be havin', Mister Doyle?"

Doyle was ignoring all of it, his attention still focused on his friend. "Bodie," he said hoarsely, "what the hell's going on?"

Bodie sat down, chuckling. "Yeh, I bet the ol' man's having kittens by now, wondering where I've got to."

"No," Doyle said bluntly. "I think the resignation cleared that up."

The blue eyes flickered uneasily. "Resigna--" He broke off, chewing on his bottom lip. "I...."

Seeing the confusion, Doyle leaned forward to put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "What is it Bodie? What's going on?"

Bodie shook his head and smiled up at Doyle. "Nothing. Why?"

"Nothing? How can you call turning in your resignation NOTHING?"

Taking another drink from the mug, Bodie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before replying carelessly, "Lighten up, Ray. It's just a job."

"But why--"

Before he could complete the question, a woman came into the pub from the back room, drying her hands on her apron. "Lover?" She stopped when she saw Doyle. "I was just going to ask if you wanted chops for supper, but it looks like I'll have to lay another place at the table. Who's the sexy stranger?"

"I've come to take Bodie home," Doyle said flatly.

"Really?" She looked him up and down. "I thought you said you didn't have a mother, Bodie?"

Bodie chuckled, oblivious to the sudden tension. "Willow, this is my friend Raymond. Ray, this is Willow." He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close against him, then down on his lap to nuzzle her neck.

Doyle had stepped back at her approach, and now he watched the couple with cool green eyes. Over Bodie's dark hair, she watched him back with eyes just as green and just as measuring. Within the space of two seconds they had taken an instant dislike to each other that was mutual and deadly. Without need for further words, they knew the lines of battle were drawn and that neither would give up easily.

So this was the scrubber that fancied she had Bodie by the balls, Doyle thought viciously, muscles clenching in his jaw. He hated her with a sudden and inexplicable violence that amazed him. Hated her voluptuous body, her pink and gold loveliness; hated the way her fingernails combed through Bodie's hair, touching the back of his neck with familiar possessiveness. Hated the confident expression in her hard eyes; the knowledge that she was on home territory and he was the intruder.

Having had more than he could take of the scene-- and very conscious of the fact that such public displays were out of character with his partner-- Doyle carefully took the girl's arm and pulled her out of his lap.

"Pardon me, miss."

Bodie blinked up at him, as if he had nearly forgotten he was there. He gave Doyle a cheerful grin, and reached for the mug.

"Bodie, are you pissed?"

The other man laughed. "Probably. Why don't you join me, mate?"

"No, thanks." He grabbed Bodie's arm decisively and jerked him to his feet. "Come on, MATE. We're gonna have a talk--in private." Hanging onto a handful of shirt sleeve, Doyle led him out of the door and down the cobbled street in the direction of the jetty. Bodie went along agreeably enough, and when Doyle released him, he even slung a companionable arm over Doyle's shoulder.

"Did I tell you how glad I am to see you, old son? I've missed you something terrible."

"Oh yes, so I see," Doyle retorted grimly.

"Where're we going?" Bodie asked amiably.

They had reached the stone wall that divided the beach from the village. There was no one about that Doyle could see at the moment.

"This is good enough." He stopped and turned to face his partner.

Bodie hopped up to sit on the wall, swinging his legs a little and still taking sips from the mug he had managed to hang onto when he was dragged from the pub. "So how've you been, sunshine?"

For a second Doyle was too angry to speak. He wanted to knock Bodie off that wall; wanted to wipe the sweet, bland expression from his face.

Rather belatedly, Bodie noticed Doyle was nearly shaking; his face flushed. "You don't look so good, you know. Maybe you shouldn't have been travelling until you got your strength back. You were pretty sick. You must be tired." He seemed as if he was finding it hard to remember just how sick Doyle had been or why.

"I AM tired," Doyle said tightly. "I'm tired and confused and disappointed and--" He broke off, taking a deep breath.

"Then why'd Cowley let you come?" Bodie asked, puzzled.

"Cowley doesn't know I'm here!" Doyle roared. "You stupid berk! I came to find out what the hell was going on, sure you were in some kind of trouble, and I find you acting like everything's just peachy."

Bodie regarded him soberly. "It is Ray. I'm sorry if you were worried about me, but I'm perfectly fine."

"Fine? You're drunk on your arse, and don't seem to care--"

"I'm not drunk," Bodie said calmly.

Doyle looked at him, seeing how he sat steadily on the wall, remembering the ease of his walk-- nor was his voice slurred in the least. Bodie could hold his liquor, but....

"If you're not pissed, there's something else wrong. You're not making sense, Bodie. And you haven't explained why you're still here."

Bodie shrugged. "That's simple enough. I like it here."

Doyle stared at him. "You like it here?"

"Yes. I think you'll like it too, if you'll give it a chance." He sat the mug down on the wall and jumped lightly to his feet. "Take a look around, Ray. It's wonderful here...like magic."

For the first time since he'd arrived, Doyle actually took stock of his surroundings. He had been so concentrated on his purpose, so preoccupied with finding Bodie, he'd scarcely noticed anything else; letting his subconscious absorb the barrage of colour and brightness. Now, he gave it another look, finding it fairly much as he'd expected from the report and Dawson's comments.

"So? It's pretty. So's Tahiti, but I've never seen you so keen on landscapes before. Why now?"

"You don't understand. It's more than that, Ray. It's...peaceful here. It's...." He shook his head. "I can't find the right words for it."

Doyle sighed. "All right; so maybe you needed a holiday. You were griping about the weather back in London anyway. So you needed a little sunshine and quiet. But why resign to get it? Cowley might've chewed you out for skiving off, but he's going to eat you alive when you go back now, you know that."

"I'm not going back," Bodie stated.

Doyle felt a strange lurch in his chest, as if his heart had skipped a beat. "Don't be daft. Of course you are. The sooner the better, too. I think the sun's cooking your brain--"

"I'm staying here, Ray. I'm happy here." He put his hands on Doyle's shoulders, standing close. "I want you to stay, too. Please stay, sunshine."

The blue eyes were totally serious, and it scared Doyle to death. "You don't know what you're talking about, Bodie."

"Of course I do. Stay on Summerisle with me."

Doyle jerked away, feeling like he was being held by a stranger. "And do what?" he snapped. "Drink all day in the pub and screw the barmaid all night?"

He sensed rather than saw Bodie stiffen.

"Christ, you can be such a nasty little bastard, Doyle."

"Why? Because I'm telling the truth? What the hell else is there to do around here? Pick apples?"

There was a spark of anger in Bodie's eyes now, and Doyle was gratified to see it. At least he was getting some reaction out of him besides good-natured blankness.

"Well?" Doyle demanded contemptuously when it seemed Bodie wasn't going to answer. "What else is there?"

Bodie replied simply, "Being happy for a change."

"I didn't realise you were all that miserable," Doyle shot back.

"No, no you wouldn't have, would you?"

The quiet words hit hard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bodie just shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Look, if you want to go, fine. I won't try to stop you. Go on, go."

"Not without you, dammit. Bodie, this isn't like you. Letting Cowley down--"

Bodie laughed and there was a tiny note of bitterness in it. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms casually over his chest. "I doubt if the Cow is too upset about it. He knew I might opt out sooner or later. What you really mean is that your nose is out of joint because I didn't tell you first."

"All right. Why didn't you? If you'd been thinking of quitting, why'd you keep so quiet about it?"

Again the puzzled look passed through Bodie's eyes. "I...."

"You came here on a JOB, Bodie. You weren't running then. So what happened all of a sudden? And don't tell me the scenery suited you."

As if uncomfortable with this line of questioning, Bodie turned his back to Doyle, propping his elbows on the wall and looking out at the sea. "I met Willow," he said weakly, but Doyle sensed that wasn't all of it.

"You're saying you really love her?" he demanded sceptically.

"Yes...no...." Bodie rubbed his forehead in confusion. "I don't know. Why shouldn't I? You saw her, Ray. She's beautiful."

Doyle refrained from offering his opinion--that it was a real pity she wasn't drowned at birth. But he was suddenly both relieved and strangely even more nervous. So it wasn't Willow alone that held him. Yet, that left the situation even more inexplicable.

"Bodie," Doyle began uneasily. "Was it something I said?"

Bodie turned to him and burst out laughing. "I don't believe you said that. That's classic, that is."

Doyle flushed with irritation. "You know what the hell I meant. That last night in the hospital...I was feeling pretty crummy and I might've said...."

"No, you were your normal, lovable self, Doyle. Don't fret."

Doyle's frustration exploded into fury. "Then what the bloody hell are you playing at? All this garbage about 'belonging' here, and being happy. You're off your nut!"

Bodie's eyes were cold again. "Maybe I am. Does it matter? Could it possibly matter to you? That'd be a new one, wouldn't it? You wouldn't know happy if it kicked you in the face, Doyle. Since I say I'm happy, it must mean I'm mad as a hatter, right? Your logic is wonderful."

"And your logic's obviously moved to your balls!" Doyle replied viciously. "She's drained it all out of you."

If he expected to get a rise out of Bodie, he was disappointed.

"Give it up, Ray. You can be as nasty as you like; I'm not in the mood to argue."

"And what am I supposed to tell Cowley? That my partner's found a nice pasture and put himself out to stud?"

Bodie smiled sadly. "I think I understand now. The old man blamed it on you, did he? So that's why you're here."

"That has nothing to do with it," Doyle protested, flushing.

"No? Don't con me, Raymond. You felt guilty, didn't you? That's why you were asking me about the hospital. I should've seen it straight off. What else would bring old Raymond it's-all-my- fault Doyle running? A good unhealthy dose of guilt. You eat it up every time."

"Shut up, Bodie," Doyle said grimly. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Bodie shrugged. "Have it your way, mate."

Frustrated, Doyle grabbed Bodie's arm. "I can't talk to you, can I? You won't listen to anything I say. I don't know why. No, you're not drunk, but there's something...."

He stared at Bodie intently, trying to put his finger on what was bothering him, what had been subtly wrong from the moment he had first seen him. What occurred to him was almost too absurd to be considered, but right now he was so puzzled at his partner's behaviour, it seemed as feasible as anything else. "No, not drunk...." Shoving up Bodie's sleeve, he inspected his arm; then repeated the action on the other.

Bodie suffered the handling mildly. "What are you doing, Ray?"

Finding nothing, Doyle's gaze fell on the mug still sitting innocently on the wall. He picked it up, took a sip and spit the liquid out quickly.

"What the hell's in this?"

Bodie regarded him blankly. "What?" The blue eyes looked clear enough, but up close now, Doyle imagined the pupils were more dilated than they should have been in the bright sunlight.

"What have you been drinking?" Doyle demanded patiently.

"It's cider," Bodie answered vaguely.

"Maybe," Doyle mused. "And maybe it's more than that."

As it dawned on Bodie what Doyle was thinking, he laughed. "So, if I'm not crazy, or drunk, I must be doped, is that it? Maybe you should check between me toes as well. Always the copper, aren't you? Listen, why don't you just run on back to London where you have more scope?"

"Not just yet," Doyle said absently. "Why not drugs, Bodie? Something's wrong, that's clear enough. Why not consider the possibility?"

"Because, old son, it doesn't make sense, that's why."

"It would if they wanted to keep you here."

"It's you who's flipped, mate," Bodie said, lightly, but he looked troubled. "Why would they want to do that?"

"Willow--"

Bodie chuckled. "Thanks for the boost to my ego, but in spite of my obvious charm, no bird has thought it worth doping me up to hang onto me. You're reaching, Doyle."

Bodie was right; he was grabbing for straws. Yet, there was more here than was apparent at first glance.

"All right, what about the job you were on? Maybe you found out something they didn't want you to know. If they wanted to keep you quiet--"

"Job?" There was a flash of true panic in Bodie's eyes, and this time Doyle saw it.

"Bodie, what is it? What's wrong?"

"I.... Nothing. It's all right."

But Doyle knew it wasn't. "My god, Bodie, you don't even remember anything about it, do you? Why the Cow sent you here?"

Bodie shifted his gaze uneasily. "Of course I do. I was to check out leads on Campbell. David Campbell."

"And did you?"

It was almost painful to watch the struggle in the confused blue eyes. Instinctively, Doyle reached out, but Bodie backed away.

"I didn't.... There wasn't anything to find." But the answer was hesitant and he was trembling slightly.

"I think there was. I think something's rotten here, and they did something to you to make sure you couldn't smell