(For Annette)

Ray Doyle's humor was as black as anyone else who had worked for the Big A for more than five years and lived through it. But even he had his limits.

"That's not very funny, Murph."

"No it isn't, is it?"

Doyle shut his locker and turned to look at him. Murphy was very pale and his face serious.

"Okay, I'll bite. Where'd you hear it then?"

"In the Op Room."

"Oh, very reliable source," Doyle said dryly. "Come off -- "

"It's straight up, Doyle," Murphy cut in. "Rawlins was on the switchboard when the call came in." Then, as Doyle snorted, he added, "Christ, can't you feel it?"

Doyle swallowed his sarcastic remark concerning Rawlins' imagination. He understood what Murphy meant all too well. Ever since he'd stepped into Headquarters, he had sensed the tension and, more than that -- the suspense. As if the whole place was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"How'd this supposedly happen?" Doyle asked, still refusing to be convinced.

"Traffic pileup."

A leaden weight settled in Doyle's stomach and he knew he was half way to believing it. Without saying anything else, he left the room and headed directly to Cowley's office.

"Betty -- ?"

The woman looked up, calm as ever, but there was a suspicious redness about her eyes and her hands shook a little as she shuffled some papers back into a file. "What are you doing here, 4.5? You're not due until 9:00."

"It's true then?" he demanded abruptly.

Her composure slipped. "I don't -- "

"Come on, Betty! I know you're supposed to keep your mouth shut, but if it's a rumor, for god's sake, kill it now. If it's true..." he hesitated. "Well, it's better to know one way or another."

She met the determined green eyes, her own bleak. "It's not official. I'm waiting for a call from -- "

The phone rang.

"Controller's office," her voice didn't waiver as she answered. "Yes. Yes, sir. I understand, sir."

She put the receiver down very carefully and looked up at Doyle. "That was the Minister. The entire squad has stand down orders. Even the in-process ops are temporarily suspended." To Doyle's amazement, she took a cigarette from a packet in her desk and lit it, inhaling shakily. Before he could ask, she said stonily, "It's confirmed. George Cowley was killed in a traffic accident one hour and thirty-seven minutes ago."

"My god." Doyle felt as if he'd taken a fist in the gut. It was difficult to envision; even harder to accept. "The old man's dead?" Saying it aloud gave it an unwanted degree of reality. "You're sure?"

"The Minister had just finished speaking with the medical examiner. There's no mistake." She stubbed out the cigarette angrily. "I thought I'd done with these things. Mister Cowley wouldn't appreciate me starting up again -- " Her voice broke and tears flooded her eyes.

Doyle searched absently for the handkerchief he seldom remembered to carry, but she found a tissue first.

In less than a minute she was back in control. "I don't have time for this; there's too many things to do." Blowing her nose one final time, she looked up at die stunned agent and smiled sadly. "You may as well go home, Ray. You'll be contacted about the...arrangements. The Minister will have to appoint a new controller before then, I imagine."

"Yes...yes, I suppose so." Unmoving, Doyle stared at the floor, still trying to take it all in. George Cowley was dead.

Already reaching for the telephone to begin the grim task of informing the necessary people, Betty paused. "Is 3.7 here?"

Startled out of his reverie, Doyle's head jerked up. "No. No, he drew stakeout last night with Carlson at the docks."

"You should tell him, you know," she suggested gently. "It would come better from you."

Even the idea of telling Bodie made Doyle want to run from the responsibility. But she was right. Nothing could really make it better, but it might be easier coming from his partner rather than reading it in the evening papers.

---

Doyle stood in front of the door for a very long time. He'd done the same thing earlier with the telephone before deciding it would be better to tell Bodie in person. Now, he had doubts about that, too. However he found out, Bodie wasn't going to take this well. He could count on one hand the number of people his cautious partner let himself care about deeply -- and George Cowley had topped that list.

Procrastinating wasn't going to help it, he told himself sternly, and pressed the door signal. There was no answer. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was a quarter to ten. After a long night sitting on the damp and chilly docks, Bodie would be curled up in his warm bed, fast asleep. Doyle pushed the buzzer again, firmly.

"Yeah? What?" came the growled response.

"It's me. Open the latch, sunshine."

"Doyle? Christ, mate, what the 'ell's wrong with you?"

"Just let me in, Bodie. It's important."

There was a muffled curse before the intercom shut off and the lock snicked open. Taking a steadying breath, Doyle went up the steps as slowly as he could, delaying the inevitable.

Bodie, in a brown robe and sleepy eyes, was waiting with his door open. "I hope you realize you interrupted the sweetest dream of my young life. She was gorgeous, agreeable and -- "

"Sorry," Doyle pushed by him and went on inside.

Yawning, Bodie ran his hand over his hair, trying to slick down the wayward tufts. "Oh, he's sorry. That's all right then."

Feeling at a loss now that he was here, Doyle asked, "Got any coffee?"

"What's this, your breakfast caf?" Bodie grumbled, but he had got a good look at Doyle's face and realized whatever it was, it wasn't good. Never could tell with Doyle, though. He got himself worked up over the oddest things sometimes. "What are you lookin' so sour about? No, don't tell me until I've woken up proper. If it's bad news, I oughta be awake enough to hear it."

Doyle followed him into the kitchen, watching as Bodie filled the kettle and collected a couple of mugs.

"Is it?"

"Eh?" Lost in his own troubled thoughts, Doyle was startled by the sudden question.

"Is it bad news?" Bodie repeated patiently. "Don't tell me the old man wants me on double watch? Me underpants are startin' to mildew from sittin' out there already. It's a bloody waste of time -- "

"Cowley's dead." He truly hadn't expected to blurt it out like that, but now that he'd said it, it seemed the only way he could have done it at all.

Bodie finished spooning the coffee and screwed the lid back on the jar before swinging around to look at his partner. "Listen, mate, just because it's your turn for stakeout tonight, doesn't mean you can -- "

"Bodie -- don't."

They stood there staring at each other for what seemed an impossibly long time. When the kettle whistled, Bodie turned away and switched off the burner. He poured the water without saying anything, handed a mug to Doyle, and went to the refrigerator for milk.

Concentrating on the other man, Doyle hardly felt the heat of the cup in his hand. "Bodie, did you hear me? Cowley is dead."

Adding sugar to his cup, Bodie stirred it without looking up. "I heard you." There was no outward reaction at all; the smooth, cool surface was unruffled. But, even across the room, Doyle could feel an inner rage building, banked down, controlled, but as tangible as the crackle of electricity behind a storm cloud.

"Who was it?"

Totally confused by the unexpected question, Doyle went blank. "Who? I don't -- " Then he understood. "No. No, it wasn't like that. It was an accident. A smash up in the car."

"Christ." The blue eyes finally met Doyle's. "I don't believe it."

This was something Doyle could relate to. "I know. Doesn't seem right, does it? The old man was such a bloody terror, never figured he'd ever buy it; not like that anyway. Guess we all figured he was immortal or something."

Bodie turned away, setting his mug down on the counter and leaning heavily against the sink. "I suppose you're sure about this, or you wouldn't be telling me."

"I was with Betty when she got confirmation from the Minister."

Bodie seemed fascinated by the steady drip of the faucet. "So what happens now?" he said at last.

Doyle shrugged, wishing the other man would look at him, or simply react enough to give him some clue to what he was feeling. He was having his own trouble coming to terms with this; he'd had a vague hope that Bodie would be able to put it in some kind of perspective, show him how to deal with it. But there was a wall between them now that hadn't been there before.

Doyle cleared his throat. "Dunno what'll happen. Probably some reorganization of the squad. Bound to be when the Minister appoints a new controller."

"You reckon it'll be you, eh, Doyle? You'd like that wouldn't you? You'd bloody eat it up."

Doyle's eyes widened, taken back by the sheer viciousness in Bodie's voice. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You always were an ambitious little sod."

The bewilderment Doyle felt at this unjustified attack rapidly resolved into anger. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Bodie?!"

Bodie laughed harshly. You don't seem very cut up about it, do you?"

"And you do? I know it used to be customary to kill the bearer of bad tidings, mate, but I expect they put up a fight. Lay off me, dammit! It's not my fault."

The broad shoulders slumped. "Yeah. I -- sorry, Ray."

The anger evaporated as if it had never been. Doyle approached the other man and put his hand on Bodie's arm. "S'okay. Have to blow off steam someway."

"Is that what I'm doing?" Bodie's voice was flat.

"Sure. You're not the only one upset, y'know."

"I'm not upset." Bodie met the doubting eyes squarely. "People die all the time, Doyle. I just want to know how."

"I told you how."

"And I don't buy it; not yet."

He brushed off Doyle's hand and headed for the bedroom.

"Where're you going?" Doyle asked.

"Getting dressed. Then I'm going to see him."

Doyle trailed after, feeling useless. Whatever it was Bodie needed to help him accept this was obviously beyond his power. Nor did Bodie seem very eager to offer any support to his partner.

"What's the point, Bodie? It'll just make you feel worse. They're probably still doing the autopsy."

"So I'll wait 'til they're finished. Squeamish, Doyle?"

"Damn you, Bodie, why are you making this harder?"

Shrugging on his jacket, Bodie said darkly, "I'm not such a trusting soul as you, that's why."

Following him down the stairs and to the Capri, Doyle tried to think of something to say to stop him, knowing that seeing what was left of George Cowley wouldn't help anything at all. But, then again, perhaps Bodie had to see to finally believe it.

Bodie opened the car door. "You comin'?"

Doyle shook his head. "No."

Their eyes met one more time, and both felt they were suddenly seeing a stranger.

Climbing in their separate cars, they headed in different directions.

---

George Cowley was known to have more enemies than friends. Both factions were present in abundance at his funeral. Whatever other emotions the Scotsman engendered, he was respected. The Prime Minister herself bad delivered the eulogy. The graveside service was smaller, although it still resembled a three-ring circus as far as Doyle was concerned. All very posh. The old man would've loved it.

He located Bodie on the other side of the grave, impeccably dressed in a handsomely tailored dark suit, with an expression that looked more dangerous than grieving. Like Doyle, he had remained unobtrusively at the back, letting the public figures have the limelight.

Doyle considered inching around to where he was, but decided against it. He'd been notably elusive during the last three days, and was making it clear he didn't welcome any company. It was a very Bodie thing to do, licking his wounds in private. Doyle understood that, tending to do the same himself -- although during the last few years Bodie had seldom given him the chance. It wasn't until now, when his partner hadn't been around to tease and bully him out of his depression, that Doyle realized how much it had helped. Irrepressible, stubborn and nearly impossible to deflate, Bodie had nudged him through same bad patches. This time Doyle was all on his own. Nor was Bodie having any of the treatment he'd dished out often enough. The couple of times Doyle had tried, Bodie cut him off cold. Doyle hadn't had the heart to persevere.

The prayer book closed and heads dipped for the final prayer. Bodie's chin stayed up, gaze moving from one face to another, studying each with a purpose that suddenly chilled Doyle as it occurred to him what Bodie was doing. He was searching for a culprit; graveside detective work. As a copper, Doyle knew it was seldom of any use in a real murder, and in this case it was totally daft.

The cool blue eyes encountered Doyle's, lingered a moment without noticeable change of expression, then moved on. A shiver of apprehension danced up Doyle's spine, and he wondered sickly if he'd been put down on Bodie's list of "suspects".

As the ceremony concluded and the mourners began drifting back toward their limousines, Doyle shook off the feeling, telling himself it was only Bodie in one of his blacker moods. He nodded to Murphy and Jax as they passed and stopped to give Susan a quick hug -- she was one of the few people who had actually shed tears at the grave -- but when he turned back to where Bodie had stood, the spot was vacant. Cursing with frustration, Doyle started to head for his own car, when he saw his partner's Capri. He broke into a lope to catch him before he could pull cut.

At the insistent rap on the window, Bodie reluctantly unlocked the passenger door. Sliding inside, Doyle said cheerfully, "Give me a lift?"

The other man didn't look thrilled at the prospect, but he nodded and started up the motor.

The silence was tense; Bodie concentrating on outflanking the line of funeral cars, Doyle wandering what the hell he could say that wouldn't guarantee a fat lip. He desperately wanted to know what was going through Bodie's head, but even though Bodie didn't clam up often, when he did, getting him to open up was comparable to poking a tiger with a stick.

Finally unable to bear the silence, Doyle said the most innocuous thing he could think of. "Nice service, wasn't it?"

Bodie shot him a glance. "I was wondering when you were going to say that."

Doyle flushed, realizing how trite and phony it had sounded. "Well, it was, wasn't it?"

"It was a load of crap. The old man would've hated it."

Doyle smiled ruefully. "That's odd. I was just thinking he would've enjoyed the hell out of it. Right along his line. All the muckety-mucks payin' their respects; half of them relieved to see the end of 'im, the other 'alf anxious to read their quotes on his tragic loss in the Times. I reckon he'd have fancied the limos, too. Always had style, did ol' I Cowley. Him and his Club and his Old School Tie." Doyle chuckled fondly. "Eh, you remember all the funerals he used to go to?"

Bodie glared at him, but Doyle felt a slight thaw.

"Speaking of ties," Bodie said sarcastically, "it might've been a nice gesture if you'd worn one, don't you think?"

"Oh...uh, yeah. I would've, honestly. But I couldn't find it."

"Find what?"

"My tie. "

That finally drew a smile. "You mean my tie, don't you?"

"Oh, was it yours? I always wondered where I got it."

"Where else? God knows you'd never spend a shilling of your own for one."

"That's right, I remember now." He also remembered the last time he'd worn it -- a date with Ann. It seemed like a million years ago. He grinned. "Want it back, do you?"

"After it's been at the bottom of your cupboard with your dirty socks? No thanks. Besides, I thought you'd lost it?"

"It'll turn up I expect."

They fell silent. Doyle cranked down his window and fiddled with the side mirror. He caught sight of a blue sedan that looked vaguely familiar. As he was opening his mouth to comment on it, it turned off. Then he noticed Bodie had also been checking it out. Why would anyone have a tail on Bodie? Impatient with himself for letting the other man's suspicions be contagious, he said abruptly, "Did you get the letter from the solicitor?"

"Yeah." A pause, then sarkily, "What is it, Doyle? You figure the old man left you his fortune?"

Refusing to be goaded, Doyle just shrugged. "Nah, that wily old goat would've found a way to take it with him." He checked his watch. "Supposed to meet him at 4:00, right? You're going, aren't you?"

Bodie hesitated.

Tired of walking on eggshells, Doyle snapped, "Come on, Bodie. Might as well. Give you a closer look at all the suspects, won't it? All the best mysteries have 'em all lined up at the reading of the will."

The hands tightened on the steering wheel. "And just what's that supposed to mean?"

Doyle snorted impatiently. "I saw you back there, mate. Doing a frigging survey, weren't you? What the hell are you up to, Bodie?"

Pulling over to the curb, Bodie shut off the motor. "We've got about an hour, want to grab a pint?"

Realizing the subject had been abruptly closed and unwilling to push at the moment, Doyle let it drop. "So you're going?"

"What? Miss the chance of inheriting the ancestral Scottish manor? I wasn't his blue-eyed boy for nothing, y'know." Bodie opened his door. "Come on, let's have a drink."

Doyle took a deep breath, determined to get past the barriers Bodie had erected. He hadn't felt the brunt of this cold, brittle side of his partner since they were first teamed. But from the moment of Cowley's death, something has changed between them. As much as he tried to avoid the idea, it was almost as if the ties between them were being severed. George Cowley had brought them together and now, without him to give it focus, the connection was fading.

But Doyle wouldn't accept that and was far too stubborn to let it happen without a fight. After the last few days, he was beginning to remember what a cold place the world could be without Bodie beside him.

Inside the pub, Bodie had ordered for both of them and had found a booth in the corner. Taking a gulp of beer, Doyle prepared to try again.

Bodie seemed to recognize the stalking look in the green eyes and spoke first to forestall it. "So what've you been up to these last couple of days?"

Surprised at the question, Doyle wasn't sure how to answer. Finally he settled for the truth. "Looking for you, mainly."

Bodie didn't respond to that. "Been down to headquarters?" he dodged the implied question deftly.

"Yeah. Couple of times. Marks and Davis are spitting fire having their op cut short. They'd worked two months on that case; nearly had it cracked." He shrugged. "But I suppose without anyone at the top...I mean, it's not like the army or even the police force. The Cow really doesn't have a backup. Funny, never really thought much about it before, but it was a bit odd him running the whole thing on his own, wasn't it?"

"Not so odd. It was George Cowley."

"True. Anyway, there's hardly anybody at Headquarters now. It's like a bloody morgue -- " He broke off as Bodie looked up. "Christ, that was dumb thing to say."

"Why," Bodie asked in a tight voice, "do you keep tiptoeing around like I'm going to go into hysterics or something?"

Doyle's eyes widened. "I'm not."

"Oh, yes you are. Have been from the first. It may come as a great shock to you -- and to the rest of the mob -- but I'm not the grieving widow as you all seem to make out. I was fond of the old man, but I'm not ready to throw myself on his funeral pyre either."

Doyle looked down, realizing there was some truth to what Bodie was saying. But it angered him as well. "Well maybe I wouldn't be so jumpy about it if you weren't acting so bloody spooky. Christ, Bodie, you've more or less disappeared for three days, and when I do talk to you, it's like talking through a pane of glass. I can't even tell how much is getting through! You're not going to sit there and tell me this hasn't torn you up, because I damn well know better!"

If he hoped to cause some reaction, he was disappointed. The hard, handsome, face hadn't altered a whit and the dark blue eyes gave no hint of the thoughts behind them.

Doyle leaned closer, dropping his voice to a gentle pleading. "Bodie, please. I just want to find out what's going on with you. I know you, mate, and something's very wrong. Don't tell me it's none of my business, because you know it is. We've been mates too long for you to shut me out."

Something in what he said must've got through, for the ice melted a degree before Bodie's gaze fell. He ran his thumb around the lip of his glass, not looking at Doyle, but obviously thinking something through.

When he finally spoke, the remark seemed almost conversational.

"Do you know his name? The name of the lorry driver that smashed into Cowley's car?"

"Uh...Peter Sanders...no, Sanderson. Why?"

"His real name was Pietor Sarnov. He'd changed his name about a year ago."

Doyle's eyes narrowed. "Go on."

Bodie looked impatient. "He was Russian, Doyle."

"From what I understand," Doyle said carefully, "he was born in Britain. He was of Russian extraction, but he's never been out of this country in his life."

"So? It won't be the first time someone's been planted -- "

"Bodie," Doyle cut him short, "are you trying to say this was a hit? That's reaching a bit, innit? After all, Sanderson was killed, too. Along with five other people."

"Could've been a suicide run," Bodie snarled. "They wouldn't care how it was done, or who else got in the way."

Doyle took a deep breath and tried again. "The brakes failed, Bodie. No plot, no plan. It was a simple accident on a crowded expressway, just like a dozen others that happen every day."

"Yeah, very neat, very tidy. Not too many questions asked," Bodie said bitterly.

"That's not true. There was an investigation. Sanderson was checked out -- you know that as well as I do. You've seen the reports."

"I've seen 'em, all right. Maybe they just weren't looking hard enough."

"And maybe there wasn't anything to find," Doyle countered.

Bodie wasn't even listening. "There has to be something. There've been contracts out on Cowley before."

Disliking the obsessive note in the other man's voice, Doyle asked quietly, "What else do you have then? Beside the fact this Sanderson chap had a Russian father and wasn't keen on advertising it?"

Bodie blinked, as if startled by the question. "Nothing yet, but -- "

"Tell me something," Doyle cut in methodically, "if this fellow's name had been O'Leary, would you be ready to pin it on the IRA?"

When that sunk in, Bodie froze. "Fuck you, Doyle. I should've figured you wouldn't understand."

Doyle sighed. "I understand, mate. I understand you can't bear the thought of Cowley dying in something as stupid and pointless as a traffic accident. It's not easy for any of us. But dreaming up some conspiracy won't make him any less dead, will it?"

Bodie didn't answer.

"Listen, sunshine," Doyle continued gently, "the old man meant a lot to me, too, whether you want to believe that or not. But he'd have your hide for wasting time on a dead end like this. First and foremost he believed in facing things head on." Resting his hand on the tense shoulder, Doyle squeezed it comfortingly. "Just face it, sunshine -- and then let it go."

Bodie picked up his beer and drained the last of it. "Fancy another round?" he asked, as if they'd been discussing nothing more disturbing than the weather or the latest football match.

Regarding him worriedly, Doyle just nodded. Bodie got up and returned with two more pints. He surveyed Doyle coolly. "Finished your lecture, Sigmund? The hour's nearly up, and I can't afford much more spare change for your rates. S' already set me back the price of two pints."

"No, I'm done," Doyle replied, feeling a fool. Worse than a fool, for nothing he had said had made a difference, it had just slid right off that smooth, crystal wall Bodie had erected around himself. If he thought a fist to the jaw might shatter it, he would've tried it. But he knew Bodie better than that. It wouldn't even scratch the diamond-hard surface. Doyle gripped Bodie's arm, hoping some of his urgent warmth would seep through. "Bodie, I was only trying to -- "

Very politely, Bodie pulled away. "I know what you were doing, Ray, but save it for someone else, okay? Let's just finish our drinks and then go listen to the old man's last words, shall we?"

For a moment Doyle regretted not being able to tag along with Bodie's fantasy. It would be easier to bury his own confused emotions in a headlong chase for wisps, to see rats in every woodpile, and fill the emptiness Cowley left by searching for a solid, satisfying place to lay the blame. But he couldn't. Not even if it meant losing that tenuous line of communication Bodie had offered. And he couldn't fake belief in something his very practical mind told him didn't exist. Bodie would catch on very quickly to any hint of condescension.

But he suddenly felt that he was losing all touch with his partner, and it was like a piece of himself had splintered off.

"Bodie, listen, I..." He faltered, wishing more than anything that he could ward off the sense of alienation that had sprung up between them before it snowballed and froze them both. "I'm sorry I didn't go with you," he finished lamely. "When you went to see him...the body, I mean. Shouldn't have let you go alone. I didn't mean to -- "

"Forget it," Bodie stopped him harshly. "Wasn't much to see anyway. The car burned. Wasn't the impact that killed him, y'know. It was the fire. I had a look at the autopsy report as well."

Doyle swallowed painfully. "Ah, Bodie..."

"Drop it, Ray. Come on, let's go. It's getting late."

---

"Well, he didn't take it with him after all," Bodie said wryly as they climbed back into the car nearly two hours later.

It had been an extremely boring hour. Cowley, as to be expected, had been very precise and detailed in the dispersal of his estate. Being Scottish to the bone, he was anything but frivolous where money was concerned, and none of his usual dry humor found its way into the bequests. While comfortably well off, he was not precisely wealthy, having devoted his time and attention to CI5 rather than the stock market. Everything was very straightforward and unsurprising. A large portion of his liquid assets were willed to a small university in Edinburgh; most of his stocks and investments were left to a distant relative, also in Scotland. His personal effects were parceled out among his friends and companions in London. All of his former secretaries received modest trust funds, and the former Minister received his supply of aged malt scotch. The most whimsical note in the entire document was his leaving his collection of crystal to Macklin.

Bodie and Doyle were jointly bequeathed Cowley's extensive private library.

"What do you want to do about the books?" Doyle asked, still puzzled by Cowley's decision on that particular selection. Neither he nor Bodie were exactly voracious readers. Doyle read when he had time, but his taste ran mostly to spy thrillers, mysteries or an occasional book on art. He couldn't recall ever seeing anything much weightier than a nudie magazine in Bodie's hand at all -- although he'd often suspected his partner of being much more well read than himself.

Bodie shrugged. "I don't care. Doesn't matter to me. You take 'em. I was never much for loading myself down with things. Maybe you can sell them and make a bundle. Probably has some first editions in with that lot."

"No," Doyle said quietly, purposely ignoring the sarcasm, "I won't sell them. It's kind of nice he gave them to us. They meant a lot to him, didn't they?"

Bodie's expression darkened, obviously unwilling to deal with the emotional side of it. "Hiding your disappointment very well, I must say, Doyle. Winding up with a ton of books when you must've expected his mutual funds at the very least."

Doyle, who had found himself more touched by the simple legacy than by any phony, pious phrase spoken at the funeral, just looked at Bodie, waiting for the eyes to meet his own. "You bastard," he said finally, more weary than angry. "You had no call to say that. Or any of the things you've said to me. I don't deserve it, and you don't have the right to say it, whatever the hell your problem is."

A flush of pink stained the pale face as Bodie turned away, accepting the callousness of his remark. The real hurt in Doyle's voice had obviously jarred him.

"It was just a joke."

"Was it, Bodie?" It demanded an answer, and Doyle was apparently willing to wait until he got one.

Bodie rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I don't know. I don't bloody know what to think any more."

Bitter tears burned at the corner of Doyle's eyes and he didn't even try to hide them. He wanted Bodie to see what he was doing to him, make him realize that he cared, dammit, and that he'd taken one wound too many. But Bodie didn't even look at him.

It wasn't until he had started the car and pulled out into traffic that Bodie spoke gruffly, "I'm sorry." He still refused to look at Doyle, and he didn't elaborate, but in the state of mind he seemed to be in, even that much must have cost him more of his composure than he felt he could afford to lose. "Listen, mate, you keep the books, okay? You're the packrat, not me. If I ever change my mind, I'll know where they are, won't I?"

"Yeah, sure. Any time." He didn't know what else to say. Didn't think he knew Bodie at all anymore. But he wasn't willing to play target anymore either.

As they made a right turn, Doyle asked, "Where're you going?"

"Taking you home."

"No, take me back to the cemetery."

"Whatever for?" Bodie demanded nastily. "Not planning on weeping over the ol' man's grave, are you? Not your style at all, son."

Doyle closed his eyes tightly, controlling his need to scream at Bodie to stop it. Somehow he sensed that was exactly what Bodie expected him to do. Consciously or not, the other man wanted him to strike back. Wanted a fight and obviously figured Doyle, with his hair-trigger temper, would oblige. But there was no rage inside to draw upon, only a crushing sadness.

"My car's there," he said simply.

"Your car -- ?" Bodie glanced at him. "Then why'd you need a lift from me?"

"Stupid as it seems right now, I...wanted to be with you. I was even crazy enough to think you might want the same thing."

"Thought I needed a shoulder to cry on?" Bodie scoffed, refusing to hear the pain in the quiet voice. "Not bloody likely."

Doyle didn't bother to point out that maybe it was something he had needed himself. For the first time since Doyle had known him, Bodie was not a generous man.

---

" -- therefore, it seems obvious that the services of this department are no longer required."

There was a tense silence.

Roberts was the first to speak up. "Sir, are you saying that CI5 is shut down? Permanently?"

"Yes. After due consideration, the Minister has decided that its effectiveness is best served by existing offices of law enforcement; specifically, MI6 and Scotland Yard. Any additional special personnel could be drawn from the SAS in emergency situations. The extra expense of this organization simply isn't justified at present."

"It was justified for ten years," Jax pointed out grimly.

"Times change," the man said brusquely, eager to be finished with this distasteful job. A civil servant of the desk-jockey variety, he thought of these people as little more than hoodlums; certainly they all looked dangerous enough.

"That's no answer," someone else spoke out loudly. "What about the operations that are already underway?"

"They are terminated. Other agencies will continue any that seem relevant."

"They can't," McCabe's lazy drawl cut through the other voices easily. He removed the cigar from the corner of his mouth and stared straight at the colorless bureaucrat. "None of 'em are fuckin' good enough."

There was a roar of agreement, a few bitter laughs, and the tension rose another degree. The representative tugged at his tie, realizing why he'd been given this job. He was the sacrificial lamb. These weren't exactly your typical mild-mannered civil servants. Still, even if he wasn't the bravest of men, Perkins stood his ground.

"Listen to me; the matter is not up to vote. The Minister feels CI5 is extraneous to other agencies, and is hereby disbanded." He added quickly, hoping to soften the atmosphere, "All personnel are, of course, eligible for any available government benefits."

"Terrific," someone else muttered. "Who the hell's stayed alive long enough to draw a pension?"

Perkins cleared his throat and tried to smile. "Well, that covers about everything for now. The Minister -- and the Home Secretary, of course -- wish to express their appreciation for your service and hopes for fruitful employment for all of you. Any other questions can be directed to the Ministry. Thank you. You're dismissed."

"I don't believe this crap," Collins called out furiously. "How can you just close down a whole department, just like that?"

"It's already done," Perkins snapped, becoming flustered. "CI5 is history. I would suggest you all start thinking of other means of making a living other than...than.." Seeing the hard glint in several of the eyes, he amended what he'd planned to say. "...whatever it is you've been doing here."

Lewis pulled out his sidearm and carefully polished its barrel on his sleeve. "Why, whatever can you mean?"

As others began to speak up and direct even more nasty comments at the hapless Perkins, Doyle, who was at the back of the room, noticed Bodie slipping out the side door. Immediately, he followed.

Out in the corridor he called out, "Hey, wait up!"

To his relief, Bodie stopped and turned, waiting for Doyle to catch up.

Doyle jerked his thumb back toward the briefing room where the voices were beginning to get louder and more argumentative. "You didn't have much to say back there."

Bodie shrugged. "Wasn't in the mood to waste my breath. Not much point, is there?"

"Not with that poor little runt, at least," Doyle agreed. "He doesn't have anything to say about it. I half expect that lot to string him up before it's over, though."

"Nah, they'll just play with him a bit before they let him run back to his mouse hole."

They began walking again, side by side. "Well, what about going higher up? To the chief rat, maybe?" Doyle suggested.

"No point, is there? The Minister's already decided, and the Home Sec's going to take his advice on it. Like the man said, Doyle, CI5 is history. Might as well get used to the idea."

"Don't you care?"

"I care. But the bottom line is that they're right. CI5 was George Cowley. Without him, might as well close up shop."

"I don't go along with that," Doyle argued. "Okay, the old man was the best. But that doesn't mean no one else could handle the job. It'd be different, of course, but it'd be better than giving up on all of it."

"And just who would you suggest to replace him?" Bodie asked cynically. "Detective Constable Doyle, maybe?"

Doyle stopped short, flushing. Bodie stopped as well. They looked at each other. "Don't start again, dammit," Doyle smoldered. "You know I wouldn't touch it. So don't even think about starting in on me again, because this time you'll get just what you're asking for. One more snotty word and you'll be eating your teeth."

Their eyes held for several tense seconds before Bodie offered a lazy grin. "That's what I love about you Doyle; you have such a sunny disposition."

Doyle was willing to accept this as an olive branch. They continued walking.

"So who did you have in mind?" Bodie asked again, his tone very different.

"What about Jack Crane or Macklin? They've been around the longest."

"Macklin?" Bodie snorted. "I wouldn't have him direct a Sunday picnic."

Doyle sighed. "Maybe you're right. Finding someone as good as Cowley -- "

"There isn't anyone," Bodie said flatly. "And even if there were, it's not up to us, is it? It's over, Ray. Time to move on."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Reaching the car park, they both stopped awkwardly.

"Fancy a drink?" Doyle asked quickly, before Bodie could fade off again. And this time there wouldn't be a job waiting to draw him back.

Bodie looked at him and for a second Doyle thought he caught a wistful expression in the blue eyes. Sensing his advantage, Doyle pressed the point.

"My place? I'll even feed you, if you insist."

Bodie smiled. "Steak and potatoes? None of that bean sprouts and rabbit food?"

Doyle's spirits lifted. "How's lasagna sound?"

The smile broadened to an appreciative grin. "What time did you say? Shall I bring me own fork?"

Doyle chuckled. "Drive around now. You can have a drink while I cook."

"Sounds like a fair arrangement."

"No it doesn't. But I'm a pushover. See you in a few minutes."

Heart feeling lighter than it had in two weeks, Doyle bounced over to his car, and found himself whistling most of the way home.

---

Leaving a well-fed and relaxed Bodie sprawled on his couch, Doyle made a trip to the kitchen for two more beers. It had been a terrific evening, the atmosphere between them very easy and comfortable -- almost like any normal at-loose-ends evening they'd shared dozens of times. Except that it was difficult to forget that nothing would be quite the same again, and even harder to forget why.

They'd carefully avoided the subject of CI5 or Cowley, both content to give it a rest and stay on the safe ground of sports, motorcycles, birds and bets. It was coming as a bit of a shock to Doyle just how happy he was to have Bodie here with him; the last two weeks underlining how much he'd taken the friendship for granted. After five years of practically having to toss Bodie out on his ear to get rid of him, it felt rather odd having had to bribe him over. In the time he had known him, Doyle recalled only one other occasion that was remotely similar -- when Bodie was involved with Marikka Schuman. Even now, he could remember the puzzled, lost feeling he'd experienced at the time. Bodie had hardly seemed to know he existed, and Bodie always paid attention to him, no matter who else was around or what they were doing. Except that time. Strange, how much it bothered him when he lost it.

After the last two dreadful weeks, Doyle wished it was something as simple as a woman now. Having a ghost take what was rightfully his, was something else again.

At he kitchen doorway, he stopped, a little stunned by what he'd been thinking. The way he'd been thinking. But as he retraced his thought processes, he couldn't pin down what had jolted him. Giving a mental shrug, he took the beers on into the sitting room.

Catching the can Doyle tossed to him, Bodie gestured to the group of haphazardly stacked crates in the corner. They'd been delivered the day before, and Doyle hadn't figured out exactly where to put them.

"What the devil are you going to do with this lot?"

Doyle sat down on the couch and popped open his can. "Dunno. Didn't expect there to be quite so many. Sure you don't want some of 'em? The poetry at least?"

"Eighty-seven copies of Burns? No thanks, mate."

"Oh come on, Bodie, there's bound to be all kinds in there. You like that stuff -- Keats and Shelley and Kipling and whatever."

"'Who travels fastest travels alone,'" Bodie quoted softly.

"Eh?"

"No, I don't want 'em," Bodie said bluntly, a chill frosting his voice for the first time that evening.

"Okay," Doyle said casually, not wanting anything to spoil the mood. "I reckon I'll have to fix up some shelving. You any good at carpentry?" he added, hoping to draft Bodie into helping.

"No," Bodie said shortly, expression unreadable.

"Never mind," Doyle replied, sensing the sudden tension in the air. "They'll keep where they are for now. We're going to be busy enough finding a new job."

"We?"

Doyle looked up, surprised Bodie picked up on the unconscious slip. He didn't think he'd unduly emphasized the "we". Five years with a partner made it difficult to think in terms of "I". An old conversation came to his mind ("Since when did you ever do anything on your own?"

"Since when did you?").

As the subject was broached, however, Doyle said lamely, "I thought we might try to find something together."

"Like what, for instance?" Bodie was giving nothing away.

"Dunno." Doyle took a nervous sip of beer. "Haven't had time to think about it much, have I? Suppose it isn't a very practical idea."

Bodie didn't offer any comforting platitudes.

The double act was over. All his vague images of them working together again burst like a soap bubble. Odd to feel so nostalgic about something that was barely ended. But, christ, he missed it already. Missed the security of a partnership -- of Bodie. But that didn't mean it all had to be finished.

"So what have you in mind?" he inquired with a false casualness. "Back to the SAS?"

It was a minute before Bodie answered. "What else did you expect?"

Doyle let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. "For a bit there I thought you were going to nip off to Africa again."

Bodie snorted. "Nah. Too old for all that. Besides, I finished with that kind of thing a long time ago."

Yeah, Doyle thought to himself, and you don't have the stomach for it anymore either, do you, mate?

"So it's back to your old mob then?"

"Not right away," Bodie replied cryptically. "Got a few things to clear up first."

Doyle sat his beer down on the table, feeling uneasy. "What's that?"

Bodie glanced at him, saw the expression, and his jaw tightened. "Nothing you'd be interested in."

Doyle leaned forward. "Hey, mate, you're not still -- "

"Drop it, Doyle," Bodie warned coldly.

A tingle of alarm shot through the smaller man. "Christ, Bodie, you're still not on about that Russian crap, are you? I thought you'd got that out of your system by now."

Doyle regretted the words the minute they were out, for the wall was back around Bodie, higher than ever.

"It's none of your business, is it?"

Hoping to get back to firmer ground, Doyle asked as coolly as he could, "What else have you found? Must be something. Spill it."

He saw Bodie cautiously glance at him from the corner of his eye, judging his sincerity.

"Come on, mate," Doyle said impatiently. "If you've got something, let's hear it. Won't hurt to have another opinion, will it?"

There was a crack in the wall now, and Doyle glimpsed how eager Bodie was to bring him in on this. Finally, he gave in.

"Okay, then. I did some checking on the autopsy report. Turns out the M.E. did it all on his own, didn't even have any assistants."

Doyle just looked at him. "So?"

"So don't you think that's bloody funny? No help? No witnesses?"

Treading very warily, Doyle asked, "You mean you think there's something screwy with the report? That he was poisoned or shot or knifed? Something like that?"

Bodie looked momentarily shaken. "No, that's not what I mean. It's... No, he died in the crash all right, I know that."

"Then what are you getting at, Bodie?"

"Well, don't you think it's bloody strange, anyway?" Bodie burst out defensively. "No one else around -- "

"Not particularly," Doyle cut in. "I did a bit of checking, too, believe it or not."

There was a hurt expression in the blue eyes, but he snapped, "Humoring me, I suppose?"

"If you like," Doyle replied calmly. "What you probably didn't bother to do was to check the rest of the files on other cases going through that morgue. It's happened before that there was no one else available to assist. Not often, true. But it's not an isolated case. And none of the others had anything to do with CI5. One was a cancer case, in fact."

"So you're still convinced everything is just fine, are you?" Bodie said resentfully. "All on the up and up, and I'm wasting my time?"

Doyle hesitated, not wanting to answer. He ran his hand through his curls, feeling frustrated and helpless. Maybe their lives were cracking up around them, but they ought to be working on patching them back together, not playing whodunit on something that wasn't even a crime except in its very tragedy. He could understand Bodie's need to focus on something else to keep his mind off the pain he couldn't admit to feeling, but this was on the verge of becoming something more dangerous -- an obsession that was masking the grief rather than assuaging it.

He had taken too long to answer, and Bodie was reading it all in his face.

"Well?" Bodie exploded. "Go on, say it! You think I'm mad, don't you? Well, say it, dammit!"

Bodie had jumped to his feet, fists clenched.

Doyle stood as well, aching inside. His voice was unsteady when he finally spoke. "What I think is that you loved George Cowley like a father, that you miss him, and that you can't make yourself accept that."

Bodie turned away from him. He threw his beer can against the opposite wall; it bounced back and foamed over the carpet. With a supreme effort, he caught back his anger before it could go further. After a moment, he faced Doyle again, his voice tightly controlled. "You never really wanted to know, did you? When you asked me what I'd found, you were just skiving to find out how bad off I was; if I was ready for the padded room yet. Well, not yet, Doyle. Not just yet."

More disturbed by the expression of betrayal he saw in his friend's eyes than by the explosion, Doyle said quickly, "That's not true, dammit! I did want to know -- wanted to be sure myself. The point is, neither of us found anything, did we? Stop being such an obstinate bastard and see that!"

Bodie grabbed up his jacket and headed for the door.

Panicked, Doyle ran after him, catching him at the door. "Bodie -- please!"

Bodie's eyes were unrelenting, pinning Doyle with an icy contempt. But there was a deep well of pain poorly concealed behind the coldness.

"Thanks for the meal, mate. See you around sometime...maybe."

He tried to shrug off the grip on his arm, but Doyle clung tighter. "Don't, Bodie. Don't go like this. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Bodie responded, finally jerking out of Doyle's hold. "You've always been one for 'going by the book', haven't you? As far as you're concerned, this one's closed."

Numbly, Doyle waited until the sound of the footsteps faded down the stairs, then he went inside and shut the door.

---

Coming home with a sack of groceries two days later, Doyle found a rather interesting little note in his mailbox. "Notice to Vacate" it said succinctly.

Putting down the bag, he sat down heavily, staring at it. Should've expected it, of course. CI5 flat -- CI5 car, too, now that he thought about it. Have to turn that in as well.

Doing a quick mental review of his finances, he winced at the knowledge of the chunk that would take from his savings. Motors didn't come cheap, and god knew what flats were going for these days. He hadn't had to deal with that on his own for years now -- five years, to be precise. One of the perks of CI5 all of them had had the stupidity to grumble about, what with moving around so much and seldom assigned the location or style they'd prefer. Now it seemed like heaven. Christ, even finding a decent flat was going to be a job.

He crumpled up the paper and pitched it across the room. It landed three inches from the beer stain in the rug. He quickly got up and scooped up the ball, not wanting to think about that anymore. It was time to snap out of it and get his life in order. He'd spent the last two days moping around, staring at the walls and worrying about Bodie. Stupid, that. Bodie could well look after himself.

Impulsively, he grabbed up the phone and dialed his partner's -- his former partner's -- number. It was far from the first time he'd tried, although he'd seldom had the guts to actually wait for it to ring before hanging up. The times he had, there was never an answer. Last chance, mate, he thought grimly. I'm not calling again. Another part of his mind laughed at the absurdity of that.

But it didn't ring. Instead, he got a disconnect recording. So Bodie had already moved on. Typical.

Doyle bit his lip, wishing the ridiculous, empty feeling under his ribcage would go away. Why did he feel like he'd let Bodie down? He'd been round and round the subject for days now, and he still didn't see any other way he could have gone with it. The only thing that would have satisfied Bodie would have been his jumping into the murky fantasy right along with him, and Doyle simply couldn't do that.

Maybe by now Bodie had had time to see that, too. True, the man could be impossibly stubborn when something upset him badly, but he'd never been a fool. Sooner or later, he'd come to his senses. Perhaps he already had but was too embarrassed to admit it.

Decisively, he picked up the phone again. It took several calls and some persuasive talking, but he managed to find out from one of Bodie's more current girlfriends where he was staying. The only reason she knew was that he had given her some of his things to store for him until he found a permanent place. Right now, he was in a hotel.

Doyle thought he knew why. Bodie was still on the non-existent trail and had no time to waste on diversions like a flat or a job. Doyle wondered how long his money would hold out; also typical for Bodie, the hotel he'd chosen wasn't exactly inexpensive.

There seemed no point in calling him now; not if he was still set on this fixation of his. They'd only fight again, and Doyle couldn't deal with that right now.

Determinedly, he put his mind back own his own problems.

---

Nearly a month later, Doyle found he didn't have much time or energy to devote to worrying about his former partner. His own difficulties were beginning to take precedence.

He'd finally managed to find a rather shabby flat in a less than fashionable neighborhood -- for what seemed an outrageous price. He'd bought a second hand car that refused to start in damp weather, and it seemed to rain every other day.

Most frustrating of all, he couldn't get a job.

When he'd tried his old department at the Met, he'd been told there was an unofficial hiring freeze. Accepting that with some doubt, he contacted some people he knew at Scotland Yard, figuring that with his record, they'd find something for him. But he got the same song and dance from them, with the added point that he'd been out of police work for a long time now. There were men already on the force with the seniority and experience to grab up any position he was qualified for.

Special Branch seemed interested at first, but after he had taken a barrage of tests, he was given the equivalent of "don't call us, we'll call you", with no further explanation. This bothered him more than being turned down by the police force. At least that had some warped logic to it, but this bruised his ego. He knew he passed every test with flying colors -- they were a breeze compared to some Cowley had put them through. And Special Branch could always use experienced men. It didn't make sense.

To add insult to injury, he was turned down by two separate private security firms because he was "overqualified and liable to be dissatisfied by the routine work".

By this time, Doyle was getting the nagging suspicion that something odd was going on. Not that he'd particularly expected to get snapped up the first ten minutes (although, deep down, he'd expected exactly that, having no small faith in his own abilities), but this was bloody ridiculous.

Finally, reluctantly, he went to MI6. While it was probably the organization best suited to utilize his talents, and the most similar in style to CI5, even the thought of working for that mob turned his stomach. His time with CI5 had given him a distinct prejudice against this particular branch of the service. Cowley's opinion of them had hardly been a secret, and the rivalry between CI5 and MI6 had just stopped short of open warfare.

Doyle's own experience with them had produced nothing but contempt; starting from Willis' involvement in setting Bodie up with Beirman's murder and permitting Kryber's subsequent assassination of Marikka Schuman, right up to the case he and Bodie had worked on just a couple of months ago when the Acting Head of MI6, Nigel Dawson, had turned out to be working with Kovak of the KGB. Rumor had it that things were sorted out now; Dawson was dead and Willis was back as Head from his temporary duty overseas. But Doyle didn't trust them, and it would take a lot to change his opinion.

His dwindling bank account did much toward that end. His options were narrowing considerably, and unless he wanted to become a taxi driver, he'd have to swallow his distaste and go for it. It occurred to him that he really didn't have the training to be much else than a cop or to do some kind of security work. It was a disturbing thought.

Telling himself there were good cops and bad cops in any service, he made up his mind to give it a shot. A few bad apples didn't necessarily mean the whole barrel was sprouting worms. And if it did -- well he'd been stepping on worms for quite a few years now. He could do it from the inside as well as from the outside.

One thing that made the idea more palatable was the fact that Murphy had joined up with MI6. At least there would be one person Doyle could trust.

After all the soul searching and indecision, it came as something of a shock to discover that, even if he had grudgingly decided to accept MI6, they weren't precisely eager to take him in. They made the proper noises, of course. They'd hired Murphy quick enough, and Doyle had double his experience in intelligence work, and was three times better with a hand gun. But after a week of red tape and delays, Doyle was informed very politely that his CI5 records had somehow been misplaced. Without the proper credentials, it would be necessary to do a thorough security check on him, from scratch. That would take time, there was a regrettable backlog. Perhaps even as long as several months before he could be cleared. Most unfortunate.

"Lost! Can you believe that crap?!" Doyle poured out his frustration and fury to Murphy that night. "Even if I was dumb enough to fall for that, you know as well as I do they have a file as thick as Willis' head on me already. On all of us. Just like the Cow had on all of those bastards." He shook his head. "No, they're giving me the runaround, Murph, just like the others. Something's screwy, dammit!"

Even in the crowded, noisy pub, his angry voice drew attention.

Murphy leaned forward and hissed, "Keep it down, will you? Stop advertising."

Doyle's eyes widened. "What? What the hell're you talking about?"

Glancing around casually, Murphy said quietly, "This may not be such a great place to talk about it, is all."

"Why the hell not?" Doyle demanded belligerently. Although not drunk, he'd had just enough to make the idea of a fight quite attractive.

The other man looked irritated. He put his drink down and stood. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Doyle wasn't in the mood for mysteries, he'd had a belly full of them already, but if he wanted some answers, he was left little choice but to follow.

Catching up with his former colleague outside on the pavement, he pulled him to a halt. "You want to tell me what's going on, dammit!"

Murphy shoved his hands in his pockets, a very un-Murphylike scowl on his face. "I'm not sure if I can. I don't know myself. But I do know that you've managed to get very solidly up somebody's nose."

"I'm beginning to figure that out," Doyle said wryly. "But whose nose, and why?"

"Whoever it is, it must be pretty high up. I was given the word earlier today, loud and clear, that it's not healthy to be too matey with you or with Bodie."

"I see." Doyle looked grim. "Well, you'd better run along then, hadn't you?"

"Come off it, Doyle," Murphy barked. "You're getting as bloody touchy as that bear of a partner of yours. You think I give a damn about that? I've already decided to pack it in with this garbage outfit. I got you out of there, you stupid sod, because you don't need to make it worse for yourself. I don't know for sure, but I think they're watching you, Ray."

Doyle recalled a few times when he'd thought the same thing, but had dismissed it as simply Bodie's paranoia rubbing off on him. "Why, Murph? I'm out of CI5, I'm just a private citizen now -- an unemployed one at that."

Murphy nodded, "Yeah, and it looks like someone is trying to keep it that way. You've been blacklisted, son. Bodie, too. No one dares touch either of you. The word's out and no one, in our kind of business at least, is going to cross it. You might get a job digging ditches, mate, as long as you don't need a license for the bloody shovel."

Doyle ran fingers through his tangled curls, totally confused. In spite of his vague suspicions, he'd never imagined anything so definite. "This is crazy," he muttered, then thought of Bodie. Yeah, crazy, he thought to himself. Christ, sunshine, what shit have you stepped into?

"Why just me and Bodie?" he asked.

Murphy shrugged. "Maybe because you two were Cowley's best men."

"That doesn't hold up. You weren't exactly chopped liver, and what about Jax and Lewis or a half a dozen others?"

"Listen, Doyle, it's no secret that you and Bodie were closer to the old man than any of us." He grinned crookedly. "No one would've dared call you his pets to your faces, of course."

"Of course," Doyle said dryly. "Bloody cowards. But, see here, Murph, that still doesn't get it. Even if what you say is right, it still doesn't explain a vendetta."

"The Cow made a lot of enemies. Maybe there're still holding a grudge and taking it out on you two. It's the simplest answer, although it does seem a bit far to go to get back at a dead man. 'Course you two never endeared yourself to a lot of people either. You were usually elbows deep in most of the big ops the Cow had on. I wish I could tell you more, Ray, but about everything I've got has been locker room scuttle. Nothing to sink your teeth into."

"I'll find out, one way or another," Doyle swore darkly. He glanced at his companion. "You realize they'll figure out who told me this. Could land you in it as well, y'know."

Murphy grinned. "Yeah, isn't that a shame? Ruin my whole career with MI6, won't it? Hey, I told you I'd had enough already. I thought I could stomach it, but I can't. Spoiled, I guess. Too many years of George Cowley."

Doyle's throat tightened, understanding completely. "Yeah, I don't think any of us knew how much we'd miss the old bastard."

"Bodie knew," Murphy said simply and looked at Doyle for reaction.

But Doyle didn't want to talk about Bodie. Not now, when he was on the edge of facing something very dirty. He'd scoffed at Bodie's fantasies only to run smack up against something that might or might not be connected. He had to find out for sure before he even started dealing with what he might have done to his partner. If Bodie had been right all along...

"Listen, Murph, thanks for filling me in on this."

"I just wish I could've given you something more solid to go on."

"It's a start. You take care of yourself."

"You, too." They shook hands, and Murphy added, "If you want some help -- ?"

"No, thanks, but you're better off out of it. It's something I've got to handle on me own."

"That might not be so easy."

"Nothing ever is, mate," Doyle called over his shoulder as he moved away.

---

"Sir, we're closing now."

Bodie looked up, having trouble bringing the woman into focus after staring at row after row of fuzzy print on the microfilm. He rubbed his eyes, but it just made them burn more. "What time is it, please?" he asked her.

"Nine, sir. You'll have to leave now."

Nine? Christ, he'd been here nearly ten hours. And found nothing more enlightening than the fact that Sarnov's father had been granted political refuge back in 1958. The odd thing about it was that he'd been arrested for espionage less than two months before. The charges had been dropped, however, and Bodie couldn't find any more details on the case. It could be pertinent, or it could be another dead end. Could be...

Sighing, he got up and stretched his cramped muscles. Damn it, Doyle had always been better at this kind of piddlework; files and old newspapers and dropped shoelaces, all the Sherlock Holmes detail and detective work. He had the patience for it, the copper's nose --

Bodie viciously cut off this line of thought, pushing back the pang of loneliness that came with it. Doyle was out of it. The partnership was as dead as CI5 -- as Cowley.

Depressed and discouraged, Bodie tugged on his coat and moved down the dimming hallways to the exit. Once outside, he stood on the steps, wondering blankly what to do next. It was spitting rain again, and the night was wet and dreary. It had been the gloomiest spring he could remember. But he acknowledged that the weather was the least of it.

He was very tired, but knew it was his spirit more than his body that was weary. He wondered idly what Doyle was doing right now. Not that it mattered, of course. Just be nice to know. Maybe even give him a ring and --

No. Doyle thought he was a nutter. Why the hell would he want to be around someone he suspected of being off his nut? What were some other pithy expressions to cover his condition? Unbalanced, yes that was a delicate turn of phrase. Doyle thought he was unbalanced. Suffering from delusions. Paranoid. Psycho. Unhinged.

Bodie smiled, beginning to enjoy himself. Then there was the ever-popular batty. Not to mention deranged, starkers, barmy and just plain insane.

The smile faded. What if, Bodie old son, what if he's right?

For the first time, he let himself consider the possibility. After all, he'd been wading through files and records and reports for nearly a month now and found next to nothing. Nothing of consequence anyway. He'd talked to dozens of people -- whether they wanted to be talked to or not -- and everything still led to a nice, neat, tidy solution: that it was a simple accident. Still, the niggling voice in the back of his mind insisted it was just too neat, all the strings tied up just a jot too artfully. And every time he was on the verge of giving up, something else turned up that was just a hair out of synch.

Or was it? Maybe it was just him that was out of synch.

He didn't feel insane, he just felt frustrated. Of course, if he were really mad, he wouldn't know it, would he? But if he was inventing the clues he was finding, he must be a masochist as well as a nutter, because he certainly wasn't finding enough to satisfy any self-respecting paranoid.

"Damn it," he said aloud.

The librarian walked past him on the steps, glancing over her shoulder at him nervously.

"Don't mind me, dear," he called after her. "I'm perfectly harmless. They let me out for walkies now an' everything."

She quickened her pace.

Following something stronger than a whim, Bodie got in his car and drove to the graveyard where Cowley was buried. The gates were locked. He jumped up and caught the top of the wall and pulled himself over, landing lightly on his feet on the other side.

It took some time to find the grave in the dark, but his sense of direction was good, and his need for a some type of catharsis was even greater. When he located it, he stood beside it for a long time, staring down and fighting the emotions that assailed him.

"Bet you're surprised to see me, aren't you, sir?" he said softly. "Bit surprised to be here meself. Never figured I was the type to be climbing into cemeteries in the dead of night to hold seances. Corpses don't generally have a lot of conversation."

Bodie's head dropped wearily. "Listen, you old goat, I've got to ask you something, and you've got to tell me straight. No more of your damn triple think. We both know I don't have the brains for it. That's the golly's department, though I'd've bit me tongue off rather than let him know it."

He swallowed the growing lump in his throat and looked up at the starless sky, letting the drizzle wash his face and cool his burning eyes.

Looking down at the grave again, he whispered, "You've got to tell me, please. Is Doyle right? Tell me, George, am I crazy?"

After a minute, he laughed. "Yeah, I'm nuts right enough. Standing here talking to six feet of dirt and a month old corpse. But you see...I don't have anyone else to talk to." He took a deep breath and sniffed. "Yeah, I know what you'd say. Talk to Doyle. That's why God and Cowley made partners."

He moved over to lean against a neighboring tombstone. "It's not that simple, though. Every time I look at him, I think.... Christ, I dunno, what I think. It's just...he doesn't understand. Thinks I'm making it all up in me head. No, I don't blame him -- not now, anyway. Half of me thinks he's right on target and I'm ready for a nice padded suite somewhere.

"But, before I give up, I have to know for sure. You understand that, don't you, sir? You've always understood me better than anyone; certainly better than Ray. Not that he doesn't try, but -- he can be a little blind sometimes, y'know?

"Right now he thinks I'm just doing all this so I won't have to face up to you being gone. Hell, maybe that is part of it. But I think I have faced it. Don't like it much, but I've lost people before, it's nothing new."

Bodie chuckled. "You know what he said? Said I loved you like a father and just couldn't admit it. He could be right about that, too. God knows I hated you like one, sometimes." He smiled fondly. "Remember when you railroaded me into CI5? Christ, I hated your scummy guts then. Some choice: Jail or working for you. Believe me, it was a tough choice."

The smile faded. "Wasn't for a long time that I realized what you did for me. Never have figured out why you took the chance. Took me in when I didn't think I had much to offer anyone, least of all to myself. I was dead inside, had been for years. Doyle once said I was no different from Krivas, but he didn't have any idea how close he was to being right."

For a few moments, Bodie let his mind slide back to the dark valleys of his life, times and places and people he'd sometimes thought he'd never climb his way clear of. But once he had, he had refused to look back, always afraid he would fall back into the chasm. Mostly, he was successful, training himself to keep the past at bay. Only when Krivas turned up or Keller --

"You knew it wasn't me, didn't you?" Bodie said wonderingly, understanding that for the first time. "I'll bet you even eventually figured out it was Keller that sold that gun shipment and just let me take the rap for it. I reckoned I owed it to him after he took that bullet for me -- hoped like hell it would make us even. Knowing Keller, that's a laugh. He just took off to Italy and waited for the heat to die down. Didn't matter; even if I was innocent that time, I'd done the same thing often enough in Africa, it seemed like poetic justice.

"Funny, you never did tell me how you convinced Major Nairn to go along with the cover up. Even if ol' Freddy was anxious to keep the sterling rep of the SAS out of the whole mess, it wouldn't've been enough to get him to let me off without a few years inside. You must've had something over on him, too, you crafty bastard."

He laughed again, beginning to feel strangely better, pouring out his heart in the cool night. It was very private here, peaceful; some of that peace was seeping into him.

"What was it you saw in me, George?" he asked curiously, "To make it worth your trouble? Oh, I've been useful enough to you since, I know that. But what was there about me that made you take the chance in the first place?" He shook his head, realizing he would never know the answer to that.

"I couldn't believe it when you saddled me with that little bastard Doyle right away." Bodie reminisced with a rueful smile. "The crook and the copper. What a bloody laugh. 'Course you never told him about me, and...I just never got around to it meself. He had a low enough opinion of me as it was -- the nasty mercenary. Not that I was wild about him either, y'understand. A flat-foot with delusions of grandeur, I reckoned. But I was wrong about that. He was damned good. More than that, he was good for me. That curly-mopped little firecracker, all morals and integrity -- until you get that temper of his up, then he'll slice you to bits and worry about it later. But he made me feel human again, alive. And somehow you knew he would, didn't you, you tricky old fox? You were wasted in that job; could've made a mint as a fortune teller."

Bodie sighed, amused with himself for needing this purge and at the whimsical method he chosen to accomplish it, but nonetheless aware that it was helping.

"Okay, George, enough's enough. This isn't the first time I've been near the edge. Last time you had to stick a gun to my head to snap me out of it. This time, I'll surrender willingly. This is no fun, y'know. I'm bloody tired of the whole mess. So just tell me I'm crazy and I'll stop so fast you'll be spinning in your expensive coffin."

The wind was beginning to pick up, and Bodie shivered in his damp clothes. Finally he grinned and stood.

"Not talking, eh? Be that way. What the hell am I asking you for anyway? Never could believe half the things you said."

Feeling at least a stone lighter, Bodie strolled back over to the wall and climbed out.

---

Doyle found that tie of Bodie's. He put it on, along with his best jacket and trousers, and spent a difficult fifteen minutes trying to coax his too long curls into looking less like a bird's nest.

At half past nine, he presented himself at MI6 Headquarters and politely asked to speak to the Head. Determined to get to the bottom of all this, he had decided to try the civilized route first.

"Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"No, I'm sorry, I haven't." He smiled winningly, "But it'll only take a moment. It's quite important, or I wouldn't disturb him."

"Very well, I'll tell him you're here." Unwillingly charmed by the sweetness of the round face and large green eyes, she quickly skimmed the appointment book. "His schedule isn't very crowded today. Have a seat, Mister....?"

"Doyle," he supplied with an angelic smile. "Raymond Doyle."

By five that afternoon, the sweetness had long since soured, and the angel was looking more than a little scruffy. The tie had come off by noon, the neat hair was history by one; at three he was using his jacket as a pillow, and had rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbow.

So much for civilized, he thought, glowering at the closed door. He had sat there patiently and watched everyone, including Willis' barber, be ushered inside without a blink.

Putting down the phone, the secretary finally addressed Doyle. Her original reluctant warmth toward him had faded as the day wore on and he began to get on her nerves. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Willis must have had an excellent reason for putting him off like this.

"I'm sorry, but Mr. Willis has gone home for the day." There was no small degree of satisfaction in her voice.

Doyle came off the chair like a whirlwind. "What? I've been here for hours! Now listen -- " Doyle shut his mouth abruptly, forcing himself to refrain from wringing her scrawny neck. "Surely he must have been able to spare me a few minutes. Perhaps he didn't understand how much I wanted to speak to him. Are you sure you told him it was important?"

"Mr. Doyle, I'm sorry you waited so long," she said primly, "but if you barge in here without an appointment, you can hardly expect to be received."

Doyle gritted his teeth until they ached. "Naturally. I'll tell you what, love. You just jot me down in that book somewhere for tomorrow, okay? I'll be back."

"I can't promise -- "

"Of course you can," Doyle said smoothly. "And thank you so much."

His appearance the next morning was considerably different. Deciding the formal approach hadn't worked worth a damn, he was back in trainers, tee-shirt and jeans. This produced an even chillier reception, but it made for a much more comfortable wait. He'd brought along a paperback as well -- one with a particularly lurid cover.

Popping a stick of gum in his mouth, he settled back in the chair with the air of a man willing to camp out for weeks.

The secretary looked a bit flustered, and immediately got on the phone to the inner office.

Doyle wondered with amusement how long his bull-in-a-china-shop partner would have waited before kicking the bloody door down. Doyle was giving it two more hours.

As it happened, he didn't have that long to wait.

The door to the inner office opened and Willis came out glaring. "What is all this nonsense, Doyle?"

Doyle stood. "Nonsense, sir? I have an appointment this time. Your marvelous secretary wrote it down for me, didn't you, sweetheart?"

"I'm a busy man, Doyle," Willis snapped. "What is it you want?"

"I wanted a job, Willis," Doyle snapped back, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Now I just want some answers."

"A job?" Willis snorted. "You've a lot of nerve, I must say. Go through channels, if -- "

"I've done that," Doyle cut in, "Seems someone's dammed them all up where I'm concerned."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What's it to do with me? If you want me to write you a recommendation -- -"

"Christ, I'd love to read that."

Willis looked at him hard. "Exactly what do you want?"

Doyle glanced at the secretary. "You sure you want to talk about all this out here? I thought you and me might have a nice little chat about good old George. I'm sure you miss him so."

For a second Willis didn't say anything. Then he motioned to his office door. "Let's go in there. Maureen, hold my calls until Mr. Doyle leaves."

Inside, Willis sat at his desk and gestured toward a chair for the other man. Doyle remained on his feet.

"All right, Doyle, what's this all about?"

"I'm hoping you can tell me, Willis. First of all, what's this crap about my file being lost?"

Willis shrugged. "It happens."

"Bullshit. I've been blacklisted, and I think you might know why. Might even be your idea."

Willis snorted contemptuously. "You've got quite an imagination. Why should I bother? I never liked you much, Doyle, but I never guessed you had a persecution complex. Unemployment is rampant, you know."

"Okay, so you tell me why no one will touch me. I'm good, Willis, and you know it."

The eyes hardened. "You certainly have a high opinion of yourself."

"Well, I've put a few over on you and this mob before, haven't I?" Doyle drawled, "Not that that is much of an accomplishment. My granny could take care of some of the monkeys you've got working for you."

Leaning back in his chair, Willis eyed him with dislike. "All right, smart boy, if you have all the answers, why come to me?"

"Because it's more than just having doors slammed in my face, a lot more. I'm being tailed as well. They have a light touch, I'll give 'em that, but once I started looking for it, it didn't take long to twig."

Doyle sat down on the edge of the desk and pushed a lamp to one side so he could stare straight at the other man. "Now why would anyone want to do that, Willis? Refusing to give me a job -- that can be blamed on my somewhat abrasive personality, I suppose. But being tailed? There's something else going on."

Willis smiled. "And you think I'm behind it? You're becoming as paranoid as your partner."

Doyle straightened. "Yeah, crazy Bodie. Only maybe not so crazy at all. As a matter of fact, I'm beginning to wonder if he isn't sharper than I ever gave him credit for."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe nothing. or maybe this all does have something to do with Cowley's death. What do you think, Willis?"

Willis looked bored. "I think you're wasting your time, and more importantly, my time. If you choose to believe I've got it in for you, go right ahead. Truthfully, I wouldn't have you work for this department if the Soviet navy was boating up the Thames. You're nothing but a street punk, Doyle. You don't respect authority and you don't play the game. That's hardly a good way to win friends and influence people. If you'd change your attitude, you might find yourself employed again. Not everyone's willing to put up with what George Cowley did. Myself, for instance." He pressed the intercom button. "Maureen, get Major Jackson on the line, please. Mr. Doyle is leaving right now."

Doyle stood languidly. "Yeah, I'll go. But I'm not finished with this, Willis. Something's smelling to high heaven, and I'll nose it out sooner or later. Count on it."

Willis sat thoughtfully for a few minutes after Doyle's departure.

"Major Jackson is on the line, sir," his secretary told him.

"Get rid of him," Willis ordered. "Tell him I'll get back to him later. And get me the Minister."

---

The desk clerk caught Bodie as he went through the lobby.

"Mr. Bodie? There was a gentlemen here to see you yesterday afternoon. He waited for over an hour, but as we didn't know where to reach you, he couldn't stay any longer. He left this for you."

Bodie took the large envelope and nodded his thanks. The return address was of Cowley's solicitor. Back in his room, he opened the clasp and two smaller envelopes were inside. One was sealed; on the outside was one word, "Bodie", scrawled in the old man's handwriting. He stared at it for a moment, mouth suddenly dry. Then he picked up the other and opened it.

Mr. Bodie:

I apologize for the delay in delivering this. It was found among Mr. Cowley's papers in his private safe. Since you had left your previous address and your former employers are no longer in existence, I encountered some difficulty in tracing your whereabouts. Perhaps I should have delivered this in person, but there were no stipulations on this matter in Mr. Cowley's will, so I am taking the liberty of leaving it with the clerk. I hope there is no problem in this regard.

If you should require further assistance in any particular, I remain at your service.

Regards,

Nigel Barrows, Solicitor

BARROWS, BROWN, WRIGHT & BROWN

Bodie's hand was shaking as he picked up the plain white envelope and read his name again. Christ, message from the grave. He got up and poured himself a drink, feeling silly for being so affected by this.

He couldn't imagine what words of wisdom the Cow would leave for him. ("Have your affairs in order, 3.7. Do all your letters.") As a matter of fact, he had -- one to Cowley and one to Doyle. No one else really mattered, did they? Funny, the one to Cowley said much the same thing as he'd said in the graveyard the night before. What was this then, the answer?

Chuckling at his own vague superstitions, he tore open the envelope. There was only one sheet of notepaper inside.

$ $ $

While Bodie hadn't really expected some sentimental outpouring, this had him totally stumped. Who the hell was Sarah Ripley? The rest of the quickly jotted notes made even less sense. Why would the Cow seal such a cryptic message in an envelope addressed to him? But it didn't even seem like a message; more like a scratch sheet with vaguely connected streams of thought that no one would understand but Cowley himself.

Puzzled and more than a little let down, Bodie sipped his drink and wondered what the old man had been up to. Could it be connected to his death? Or was he still grabbing for straws in a phantom haystack? But the Cow seldom did anything without reason. Perhaps he'd meant to explain this, but had died before he had the chance.

Ray might be able to make sense of this; his mind occasionally worked along the same torturous twists as Cowley's. Besides, give the little sod a puzzle to chew and he was happy as a pig in muck.

But not this puzzle. Doyle wouldn't want to know.

Bodie studied the name again. Sarah Ripley. The name didn't ring any bells. An old flame of Cowley's? Not a chance. A contact? Maybe. There was one obvious way to find out.

He drained his glass, tucked the paper carefully in his pocket, and went to visit the lady in question.

---

She immediately recognized the nice looking young man at the door.

"Why, it's Mr. Bodie. How nice of you to visit. I was half expecting you when I heard about poor George. I've just put on some tea; do come in." She chuckled at his stunned expression. "And do close your mouth, dear. It gives you a particularly witless expression."

He shut his mouth, slowly recovering his equilibrium. "Miss Walsh. I was expecting someone else."

Following her appreciative laugh through to the comfortable sitting room, he sat down in the arm chair she indicated.

"You were calling on Sarah Ripley, I take it?"

"Yes, I was. Do you know her?"

"You're looking at her, dear boy." She calmly poured out a cup of tea as he digested that bit of information. "I hate to disappoint you, when I know you were presuming to meet some sultry blonde with a Russian accent, at the very least."

"Prefer redheads," Bodie mumbled, feeling a little foolish. Elizabeth Walsh, no less than George Cowley, could make one feel like a not-overly-bright ten-year-old.

"Milk and sugar?" Her warm, dark eyes glowed with gentle amusement.

"Yes, please," he responded humbly. "Miss Walsh, would you mind explaining this to me? I was left a note from the Co -- from Mr. Cowley with this address and the name of Sarah Ripley. Do you know why he would do that?"

She sighed as she handed him his cup. "Sweet, cautious George. He was worried about me, of course. This was obviously his way of leaving me in your large," she dimpled, "very capable hands. Totally unnecessary, of course. I've been taking care of myself for quite a few years now. Why, goodness, I'm four years older than George was. And I'm a better shot than he ever was, as well."

"But he never said anything to me -- "

"George always played his hand close to his chest. He probably didn't see the need to tell you just yet, but left that note as a precaution, knowing you would follow up on it. But, like most of us, he didn't anticipate his death would come quite so suddenly."

Bodie looked down into his cup, jaw tight.

A gentle hand touched his arm. "I'm so sorry, Bodie. Are you all right, dear?"

She knew how it hurt him, but somehow that didn't bother him. With her, it didn't seem necessary to deny it.

"I don't know," he answered simply. "Ray doesn't think so."

"That's your partner, isn't it? Ray Doyle?"

He nodded, still not looking up. "I've given him a pretty rough time, the poor sod. It wasn't his fault, but -- "

"But it was easier to be angry than to grieve?" she finished softly.

The blue eyes met hers, took in the intelligence, the quiet understanding, the humor. He smiled. "Yeah."

She patted his arm. "Drink your tea; it's getting cold."

Grateful for both her undemanding compassion and her willingness to let it go, he did as he was told.

Unobtrusively, she watched him, noting the change in him from when she'd seen him only a couple of months before. Still powerful and darkly handsome, there was nevertheless something eroded from him, worn down like water on a stone. He looked tired, but it was more than a mere lack of energy, it was a sense of futility. Two months ago she had watched him tease and aggravate both his partner and Cowley with the air of a man who was secure about his place with both. Now his eyes looked a little lost and his shoulders wore a slump of despair.

"Why the alias, Miss Walsh?" he asked after a few minutes. "Or shall I call you Miss Ripley?"

"Call me Elizabeth...if I may call you William?"

He winced. "I don't exactly -- "

"William," she said firmly. "Bodie was the name of a despicable young man I knew back in the war who made three passes at me and never followed through with any of them, the insensitive lout."

Finding himself thoroughly charmed by her, Bodie surrendered meekly. "William is fine."

"Good. About my alias, well, it seemed wisest at the time to let the premature rumors of my assassination stand. If I was already dead, it was less likely I would receive anymore unexpected calls from hitmen."

"But I thought all that was settled. Kovak is dead, and so is Dawson."

"That's true, but after some consideration, neither George nor myself were positive that was the end of it. George gave the same option to the rest of the people on the list -- some of them took him up on it and are living under assumed names in different parts of the county, most didn't think it was necessary."

"But you did?"

"Let's just say I haven't lived this long without learning to be cautious. Besides, I was ready for a change. I enjoy my retirement, but it was getting a bit dull." She smiled, eyes twinkling. "And not everyone gets the opportunity to read their own obituary. I was quite impressed. Seemed a pity to ruin it all by popping up again. More tea?"

"Yes, thank you," Bodie replied absently. "Elizabeth, if you think Dawson wasn't at the bottom of it -- "

"Then who was?" she finished for him. "And more to the point, do I think all this has a bearing on George Cowley's murder? The answer is yes, I'm sure of it."

He nearly spilled the fresh cup of tea she handed him. "Murder?" he said weakly.

"Of course," she said matter-of-factly. "You believe the same, don't you?"

"I...I...don't -- " Bodie stammered, thrown for a loop. He set the teacup down very carefully before he dumped it in his lap. After over four weeks of going it alone, uncertain of what he was looking for, let alone why, of having Doyle's skepticism ringing in his head at every turn, of beginning to seriously doubt his own stability, he didn't know how to cope with this.

"William," she said sternly, "there's no sense in either of us dancing around the subject, is there? That's essentially what this meeting is all about. We are both determined to find out who killed George Cowley."

He took a deep breath and said honestly, "I haven't found much of anything. There isn't a shred of proof that it wasn't just an accident." There, he thought to himself, I've said it aloud. I've admitted it. Maybe I can give it a rest now. Let Cowley rest.

But Elizabeth obviously had other ideas. "of course there isn't," she said calmly. "There wouldn't be, would there? Not unless they were amateurs; and they are anything but that."

Confused, Bodie stared at her. "Who are they?"

She patted his arm again, sweetly. "That's what you and I have to find out, dear. The real spy, I would imagine. And whoever he's paid to help him. Poor Dawson was probably just a stooge. I don't know why I ever thought he was the top man to begin with. He didn't have the brains or the courage. I must be getting senile. Help me take the cups to the kitchen, there's a good boy."

Feeling as if he were the one becoming senile, Bodie picked up the tray and followed her to the kitchen. He put it down on the sink and turned to her.

"Elizabeth, are you serious about this? It's not some kind of... I mean, you're not just humoring me or something, are you?" he came out finally.

"Why, whatever for?"

"Dunno. Stupid question." He looked down on the floor, face reddening. "Doyle pretended to go along with it once, but he really didn't want to know. Didn't believe a word of it. Just testing to see how far gone I was, I suppose."

"Oh, William," she said kindly, "it really hurt you that he didn't believe you, didn't it? You miss him, don't you?"

Bodie didn't answer.

Elizabeth began rinsing out the teacups. "You mustn't blame him, you know," she said quietly. "I'm sure he wanted to believe you. Perhaps it is easier for him to deal with hard facts. Unfortunately, sometimes that's not enough, and you simply have to go with what's in your heart not your head." She glanced at him. "It also means you let yourself be a lot more vulnerable. Maybe your partner is afraid of that."

Bodie smiled wryly. "The only thing Doyle is afraid of is being overcharged at the chicken and chips shop." The smile faded and he shook his head. "No, I don't blame him for not believing me. Why should he? Besides, I was ready to agree with him that I had slipped my trolley."

"And now?" She dried a teacup as she waited for an answer.

The blue eyes twinkled. "Well, it's hard to believe you have as well. I'd never seen the Cow respect anyone as he did you."

"A very perceptive man, your Mr. Cowley." She hung the tea towel up and pushed him toward the door. "It's getting late and you look like you could use a good night's sleep. That's probably been your trouble all along; can't figure anything out with a muzzy head. Go home now, and come back in the morning. We'll put our heads together then and see what we come up with."

"But -- "

"Go on, William. You're a very exasperating young man."

"All right. But I have to warn you, there isn't much to go on."

"You forget," she replied, eyes sharp. "I have another piece for that puzzle board I started. George Cowley."

---

Doyle was in an evil mood. His meeting with Willis earlier that day had more than confirmed his suspicions, but it hadn't helped bring an answer.

First of all, and most reluctantly, Doyle had to admit that Willis wasn't the instigator of this. It would have been so much simpler to lay the blame at his dirty doorstep and go from there, but it just didn't add up right. This blacklist, and he was positive Murphy was right about it, went a long way beyond MI6. Willis had very little pull at Scotland Yard, and not a few enemies there as well. And while he wouldn't put it past Willis to have him tailed, Doyle had too much admiration for their style to believe it was any of the ham-handed MI6 chumps. Whoever it was had class. Even Bodie couldn't have done as slick a job as them. So that left him just as much in the dark as to who Willis was working for and where the trouble originated.

Willis had to know what was going on. He might not be running the match, but he knew a little about the game plan. Getting him to talk was the problem. It had to be somebody higher up, someone with a lot more power than Willis. But that, in itself, seemed bizarre. What could he or Bodie have done to put somebody's nose out of joint? They were small fry in the scheme of things; without Cowley behind them, they were about as threatening as a couple of wet matches.

But even a wet match can seem a little risky if it's too close to a gas leak.

For the hundredth time that day, Doyle wondered if Bodie wasn't on to something after all. It kept pointing right back to that.

There was only one thing for it; he'd have to swallow his pride and go to Bodie. Tell him he just might have been right. It wasn't going to be easy after what had gone down between them the last time. Doyle would as soon walk into a lion's den at mealtime. Probably be safer.

Despite that lowering thought, Doyle felt better. Even if Bodie chewed him up and spit him out (which was a distinct possibility), they'd be partners again. And just maybe he could wash away that terrible expression of betrayal and make Bodie trust him again. Perhaps he didn't deserve to hope for so much, but he did, with all his heart.

Doyle was so lost in thought, it took a second for him to notice his way was being blocked. He looked up...and up. Without recognizing the face, he recognized the fact the individual was a half foot taller than he was and considerably heavier -- as were his two companions leaning against the alley wall a few yards away. None of them looked pleasant.

Doyle smiled. "Pardon me, you're standin' in the middle of the pavement."

The man didn't move.

"Okay, you look quite nice there. Carry on." He started to go around and the other two moved to block him off.

"We want to have a little chat with you, friend," the first man growled.

Doyle stepped back, measuring the situation with a rueful eye. He turned back to the speaker. "Lovely. Always fancy talkin' about meself."

"Go on, move it. In the alley, Goldilocks."

"Why does everyone call me that?" Doyle said plaintively. He gestured toward the other two gorillas. "I take it this is momma bear and baby bear; or are they just lodge brothers?"

"No, we're the arm wrestling team from Cambridge, and we want you to join up."

"Oh, very amusing. Listen, what's this all about?"

Papa Bear promptly produced a gun. "I'll bet you're just dying of curiosity."

Doyle's hand itched to reach for his own side. Habits fade slowly. CI5 issued cars, flats and guns. His own had been lawfully and respectably returned to the armory.

Holding out his hands with a grin, Doyle said, "No trouble, lads. Be happy to talk with you, won't I? No need to get nasty -- "

On the last word, his foot neatly removed the offending weapon and it bounced into the gutter, following it up with a fist that doubled up Papa Bear and delivered a excruciating kick to Mama Bear's groin. He wasn't fast enough to take care of the smallest, however, who got Doyle in an armlock and put a knee to his spine before pitching him headfirst against the brick wall. Doyle slid down the wall, nose bleeding. By this time, the other two had recovered -- although one was walking very stiffly.

Turning over weakly, Doyle looked up, wiping the back of his hand under his streaming nose. From the expression their faces, he obviously hadn't endeared himself to them. Sniffing, he offered a wry smile.

"Would you believe I'm really sorry I did that? Honestly, we can have that little chat now."

"Get him up!" the ringleader ordered tersely.

They jerked him to his feet and half dragged him into the darkened alleyway where they shoved him back against the wall.

Conserving his energy, Doyle let them hold up most of his weight while he judged his chances of getting free. They were definitely slim. This wasn't the most salubrious neighborhood at the best of times; at this time of night, passersby tended to mind their own business.

Doyle studied their faces, realizing almost from the first that this was not a simple mugging. But he didn't think they were MI6,, either, although it was hard to be sure.

"You should've emigrated, Doyle," the first man said, grinning, clenching a fistful of curls and slamming Doyle's head back against the wall. "Would've saved everyone a lot of trouble, and you a lot of skin."

So he was right; it was a set-up. What was worse, they weren't even trying to hide the fact -- which meant they didn't intend to let him go to talk about it later.

"What do you want?" he demanded, trying to buy time.

He heard the distinctive click of a switchblade.

"Hang about," one of them said, "not so fast."

"Why not? Let's just do the job and get out of here."

"No. I owe him something first."

A knee landed in Doyle's groin and he nearly passed out from the resulting agony.

"How's that, brave man? Com'on, tough guy like you can take a little pain, can't you? Good thing, too, 'cause you got a lot more coming up."

Doyle could finally breathe again, enough to moan at least, but red sparks still flashed behind his eyeballs as the shock of the blow faded.

"We're wasting time. Just stick him and let's clear out."

"No! Not yet."

Opening his eyes, Doyle caught the glint of dull metal. Terrific, he thought hazily, brass knuckles. He tried to gather his strength to fight, but he was held securely on both sides. Moving his head to dodge the fist, it glanced off the side of his chin and scraped sharply over his neck.

"Hold him, dammit!"

The next punch was to the gut, and he was sure it would finish him. He would have vomited but they slammed him back upright against the wall, where he hung on the restraining hands, gasping.

Then, just to prove that miracles do happen, a whistle pierced the alleyway and a voice shouted out, "Eh! You lot! What're you up to?"

"Shit," one of the men snarled. "Do it, quick. We can't afford to be made on this -- "

Spurred by the wicked flash of the knife, Doyle kicked out wildly, striking his target by luck more than anything. The blade clattered to the pavement, and there was another whistle. The three men scattered, cursing, and pelted down the alley. Doyle tried to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling, but his legs buckled and he dropped down to his knees, sick and dazed. Footsteps raced past him as the copper pursued the men, not even noticing Doyle hidden in the shadows of the garbage bins.

Starting to call out, something stilled his tongue. Couldn't even trust the police now. Whoever was out to get him had influence there, as well. Couldn't trust anyone.

He hurt so much, he was almost afraid to move. He could taste blood and his vision was blurred. Throwing up, he finally felt a little better.

Half crawling, half stumbling, he made it to the mouth of the alley and realized he wasn't going to make it much further. But there was a telephone box on the corner.

Bodie. That single thought furnished the impetus to cross the few yards to the box. He fell against it heavily, legs shaking. The light inside had burned out and the door stuck when he tried to pull it open. Cursing, he jerked harder and banged his shin when it suddenly gave way.

If anyone had been on the street earlier, the police whistle had cleared them off. There was no one in sight, but Doyle was still grateful for the relative darkness of the phone box. In the back of his mind was the fear his assailants would circle around to finish him off.

Finding the numbers swimming before his eyes, he finally got hold of the operator and had her ring Bodie's hotel for him.

Be there, dammit, he pleaded silently as the desk clerk made the connection to the room.

"Hello. "

Doyle nearly fainted in the sheer relief of hearing his partner's gruff voice. He swallowed, felt something cut the inside of his mouth, and spit out a small piece of tooth. Christ, when did they get that lick in? he wondered hazily.

"Hello," Bodie repeated with irritation. "Is someone there?"

"Bodie..." Doyle managed at last, and was surprised at how unsteady his own voice sounded.

"Ray?"

Doyle leaned his forehead against the glass, feeling sick again. "Yeah, 's me...or what's left anyway. Oh, Bodie...please..."

Picking up the pain in the choked voice, Bodie said quickly, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I...I'm sorry about..."

"Ray, what the hell's wrong? Where are you?"

"Phone box."

"Where?" Bodie repeated patiently.

"Dunno." Doyle looked around blearily, disoriented. "Wait, I was..." he trailed off, feeling himself sinking slowly down.

"Ray! Tell me where you are!"

"Can't," he mumbled, suddenly lightheaded. "'m passing out..."

"No! Don't pass out, dammit!"

"'S a stupid thing to say," Doyle chuckled. "Can't 'elp it, can I?" But the moment of giddiness passed, giving the pain a free rein. "Help me, Bodie..."

"I will, sunshine," Bodie soothed. "Just try to think. Where are you?"

Remembering, Doyle told him the cross streets.

"Okay, I'll be there quick as I can. All right, Ray?"

In a crumpled heap at floor of the box, Doyle was in no condition to answer.

---

He woke to the feel of a wet cloth on his face, and whimpered as several distinct hurts made themselves known.

"About time you come around, Briar Rose."

Doyle opened his eyes -- actually one and a half eyes; the right one being in somewhat poor repair -- and looked up at the worried face.

"Where am I?" he croaked, trying to sit up.

Bodie held him flat. "My hotel room."

"Oh." Considering that for a second, he asked, "How'd I get here?"

"How do you think? I carried you. Thought about taking you straight to hospital, but figured I'd inventory the damage first."

Doyle smiled groggily at the picture that presented. "Doesn't your 'otel take a dim view of you carryin' blokes through their lobby?"

"Nah, used to it, aren't they."

Doyle chuckled, then moaned at the resultant pain in his stomach. "Christ, I hurt."

"Not surprised; someone did a job on you, son. Lie still."

Doyle winced as the cloth patted delicately along his jaw and neck.

"What the devil happened anyway?" Bodie asked.

Watching the tender concentration on the other man's face as he cleaned the blood away, Doyle felt a constriction in his chest that had nothing to do with the punishment he'd taken.

Instead of answering the question, he said abruptly. "You were right, Bodie. I should've listened to you. I'm sorry...really sorry. You believe that, don't you?"

Bodie regarded him warily. "What are you on about now, Doyle?"

"I was just so sure you were trying to...I dunno, run from the truth, I suppose... I've made a mess of things, and I'm honestly sorry."

Squeezing out the cloth in a basin of water, Bodie didn't answer.

"Did you hear what I said?" Doyle demanded, irritated by the lack of response. "I said you were right, dammit!"

Bodie pushed him firmly back down. "And I said to lie still. The side of your face looks like chopped beef. Let me get some more of this blood off and check how bad it is. Hold still!"

"But I want to tell you -- "

"Tell me what?" Bodie said absently, grimacing as he uncovered a particularly nasty gash beneath Doyle's ear. "Christ, what'd they use on you, anyway, a spiked club?"

Doyle caught the exploring hand and held it, making Bodie pay attention. "Will you hear what I'm saying? I'm trying to apologize for acting the way I did. I was wrong."

Bodie met the intense green eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze uneasily. "They must've given you brain damage, old son. Not like you to -- "

"Bodie, I'm serious, goddammit."

Bodie went back to tending the wounds. "Well, it's not the time to talk about it. You've just had the crap thumped out of you. Take it easy; it's bound to hurt like hell."

"I deserve to," Doyle retorted, wallowing in his sense of guilt. "Knocked some sense into me, didn't it?"

"Don't say that!" Bodie snapped. "I don't like to see you hurting."

"You mean that, don't you?" Doyle asked, a little awed. "Even after the way I hurt you."

Bodie refused to look at him. "You did what you thought you had to, Ray. So did I. Let's leave it at that."

"But -- "

"Listen," Bodie cut him off ruthlessly, "I haven't found a bloody thing that amounts to anything, so there's no reason for you to apologize. Looks like it was you who was right. I admit it, I conceded. So there's no need to humor me anymore, okay?"

"You contrary bastard!" Doyle sat up furiously, ignoring both the restraining hand and his sore muscles. "Don't tell me you've given up! I just got the holy shit beat out of me, nearly bloody killed, and you've finally decided you've been imagining it all! I'll fuckin' kill you!"

Bodie tried to settle him back down. "Okay, okay. Slow down, sunshine. There, you've got your hooter bleedin' again."

Reluctantly, Doyle laid back against the pillows, accepting the cloth to staunch the fresh trickle of blood from his nose. He eyed Bodie irately. "You haven't really given up, have you?"

"No," Bodie replied cautiously, "not totally. But there's no need for you to get involved in it."

"Involved, hell! What do y'think all this was about, anyway? This wasn't a simple mugging, Bodie; it was a hit. Someone paid them to do me in and make it look like a robbery."

"A hit? You sure?"

"Of course I'm bloody sure! They'd been paid to put me down, and it was sheer luck they didn't manage it."

The blue eyes snapped fire. "Who? Why?"

"I don't know. These were just hired bully boys. No finesse at all. Cheap and easy chumps. Something's going on, mate. I don't know if it has anything to do with Cowley's death, but it's beginning to look very much like it. I think -- " He broke off with a yelp as Bodie touched a particularly sensitive scrape on his neck. "Watch it, dammit! I don't have much skin left as it is."

"Sorry, but it's got to be cleaned up, mate." He picked up the bottle of antiseptic. "This is going to smart a bit."

Doyle's breath hissed through his teeth as it was applied. "That's a friggin' understatement. Enjoying this, aren't you?"

Accepting the light tone and appreciating it, Bodie smiled. "Well, this'll teach you to get into punch-ups without me, won't it? I can't let you be off on your own at all, can I? More trouble than you're worth. Here I thought you'd be back wearing nice blue uni's with shiny buttons, directin' traffic or something, not getting into brawls."

Doyle sniffed again, discovering his nose had stopped bleeding. "Believe me, it wasn't my idea. And right now I can't get on as a crossing guard."

"You want a drink?" Bodie offered. "Brandy maybe?"

"The way my gut feels, I'd puke it up. So what's your prognosis, doc?"

Bodie ruffled the curls. "You'll live. Won't be so pretty for a day or two."

"That's no surprise. Never was."

Bodie started to say something, changed his mind and just shook his head, smiling. "Okay, you want to back it up and tell me what you were talking about earlier?"

Doyle filled him in, quickly and precisely, on the problems he'd been having, including Murphy's tip-off. He tried to keep his own feelings out of it -- the vague sense of homesickness for CI5, for Bodie -- and made it crisp and to the point, as if he were reporting to Cowley.

Bodie took it all in, face grim.

At last, he said, "It still doesn't necessarily have anything to do with what happened to the old man, y'know."

"Doesn't it? Then explain what happened tonight. Or why we're being tailed."

Bodie shrugged. "Could be just routine follow-up. Make sure the alienated CI5 geeks aren't turning bad; selling information to nasty people, that kind of thing. A precaution. Better than being twepped, at least. Think about it -- if you were setting a couple dozen trained killers on an unsuspecting public, wouldn't you keep tabs?"

Doyle hadn't really thought about it at all, but it was logical. Cowley had put them onto observing disenchanted, fired, or resigned operatives before. Former agents often turned out to be ticking bombs, "All right, you have a point. But what about tonight?"

Bodie stood and moved to the window. "That's different. I don't want you mixed up in what I'm doing. If you're taking the fallout from my nosing around -- "

"Bodie, from what Murphy's picked up, it's not just that. Both of us are targets because we were closest to the old man."

"So somebody thinks he might've told us something? That we know more than is safe?"

"Could be."

Pulling back the drape, Bodie looked down into the street. "Why just you, then? Why not me?"

"Maybe you're next. Or maybe they got in a hurry to get rid of me because I stepped on the wrong toes. Willis was none too happy yesterday; perhaps he let somebody else know that."

"You think it's Willis?"

"Dunno. Wish it was just him. Be a hell of a lot easier to deal with. No, it's somebody bigger than Willis callin' the shots."

"Cowley's been dead for over a month," Bodie mused. "Why wait so long, if they think we need to be removed?"

"Be hard to brush off two more deaths so close. Too much of a coincidence. And the last thing they want is more questions asked. But they want us dead -- along with CI5 and George Cowley...and whatever it is they're trying to hide." He studied the tense back, wondering what was going through Bodie's mind. "Tell me what you've found out so far."

Bodie's head lifted, staring hard at Doyle.

"Don't look at me like that," Doyle told him sharply. "I mean it this time. I'm ready to listen, dammit. Really listen."

Bodie sighed and let the curtain fall. "Not now. You need to get some rest. So do I. I'm bloody tired."

Judging that Bodie needed time to think about this, Doyle didn't push it. "Okay, tomorrow then." He pulled the blanket up to his chest and glanced around the room. "This must be costing you a bundle."

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Bodie tugged off his shoes. "Not so bad," he replied noncommittally.

"Come on, mate, I know you. Never was one for putting much aside. This has got to be a drain on what little you do have. Bet you have a flash car, as well."

Bodie smiled as he unbuttoned his shirt. "Don't know me as well as you think. I've leased a mini."

Doyle laughed, then groaned. "Christ, me whole gut's sore."

Concerned, Bodie touched his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just bruised up. Nothing too major." He watched the other man undress. "Tomorrow you'd better check out of here," he said abruptly.

"Check out?" Bodie paused in the process of hanging his trousers over the back of a chair.

"Face it, you can't afford this luxury. Stay at my flat for the time being. Neither of us are going to be working for a while; it'll conserve money."

Bodie climbed in the bed and propped up his elbow, resting his chin on his hand, blue eyes twinkling merrily. "Is this a proposal, darlin'?"

"Piss off. If we're going to be working on this -- "

"Working on what?"

Doyle stared at him, wondering if Bodie had always been this dim. "Cowley's murder, of course. What've we been talking about for the last hour?"

Bodie dropped his face into the pillow with a groan. "I don't believe this. Yesterday I was mad as a hatter; today I'm gatherin' a fan club."

Doyle frowned, confused. "What d'you mean? Who else knows about this?" He felt an odd pang, just a degree short of jealousy.

Bodie heard the edge in the voice and smiled to himself. The little rat deserved it for not backing him up in the first place. "Tell you about it tomorrow." He leaned over and switched off the light.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Bodie said, amused at his partner's persistence.

"Are you coming to my flat or not?"

Bodie took a long time answering, and Doyle realized he was actually holding his breath while he waited. It seemed very important to keep Bodie with him; he'd had his fill of being alone.

"I suppose it makes sense," Bodie said grudgingly.

Satisfied, Doyle lay back again. "That's settled then. Besides, the way things are going, I don't want to be walking down too many dark streets without your big, hulking presence to keep off the villains. I've had enough of being a punching bag."

"And I thought you loved me for my alabaster skin, and winning ways," Bodie commented mournfully.

Doyle snorted. "Go to sleep."

---

Wincing as he dried off after his shower, Doyle ruefully catalogued his bruises. He ached all over, but knew if he didn't move around a bit, he'd stiffen up even more. Wasn't the most damaging beating he'd had in his life, but it easily made it to the top ten. At least it helped him avoid giving Bodie a hand in moving out of the hotel room -- not that there had been much to move; a couple of suitcases of clothes was about it.

Coming out of the bath tying his robe, he heard Bodie on the phone and stopped in the doorway, not at all bashful about eavesdropping.

" -- soon as he feels up to it. Yeah, he's walkin' around like a little old man with creaky bones. Okay. Thanks. 'bye."

Doyle leaned against the doorframe. "And who was that?" he demanded testily.

Bodie looked up, startled. "Didn't your mum ever tell you that wasn't polite? Listeners never hear good of themselves, y'know."

"I reckoned my 'creaky bones' would give me away."

Bodie grinned and looked him up and down. "Hard to believe, but you look worse than you did last night. Can you see out of that eye?"

"Well enough. You didn't say who you were talking to," Doyle pointed out.

"Agatha Christie. She's helping me solve the Case of the Crashed Cow."

Annoyed, Doyle glared at him. "You're not going to tell me, are you? You still don't forgive me. What's it going to take to convince you I -- "

"Doyle," Bodie broke in with a sigh, "for the tenth time, there's nothing to forgive. Of course I'm going to tell you; just give me a chance, okay?"

A bit mollified, Doyle grinned crookedly. "Did you have a rendezvous with a beautiful bird this morning? You always get that cat-lap cream in your voice when you're talkin' to a bird."

"As a matter of fact, I did. An older bird. Very nice. But it'll keep 'til you feel up to it. I think she wants us both."

"At the same time? Kinky, mate." He moved toward the kitchen. "Coffee?"

"Kettle's already on to boil," Bodie called after him. "This place is a real dump, Doyle, did you know that? The paper's peeling off in the bedroom, and I don't know how you sleep with the pipes clanging like a one-man band."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Doyle retorted. "An' I'll have your 'alf of the rent up front, by the way."

"How kind. 10 p. a night, is it?"

"You wish." Returning with a mug for himself and one for Bodie, Doyle sat down very carefully on the sofa, wondering if he'd be able to get up again without being pulled up. "So tell me, who was it?"

"Elizabeth Walsh."

"What? What's she got to do with all this?"

"She thinks the accident was a set-up, too. That he was murdered."

Doyle whistled appreciatively. "That settles it then. I might have doubts about your sanity, sunshine, but that lady is pure gold. How'd you get with her anyway?"

Bodie explained about the note from Cowley and his visit with Elizabeth the day before.

Studying the cryptic message, Doyle looked baffled. "What's it mean?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"Those numbers," Doyle said thoughtfully, "31 - 56 - 62. What do y' reckon they're for? License number? Safe combination? Flat numbers?" His face brightened. "How about a Swiss account?"

"Sounds more like a girl I never want to meet," Bodie muttered.

"Redstone," Doyle mused, ignoring the remark, "Name of a place or a person? The paired letters...could be initials, I suppose. And Dawson." He looked up. "Nigel Dawson, maybe?"

Bodie shrugged. "Maybe Elizabeth will have a notion of what it means. She has an idea it might tie in with that op we were on back a couple months ago. Thinks Dawson wasn't the real spy after all."

"That could be why he's marked a line through the name," Doyle suggested. "Maybe he was onto who it really is. If he was getting close, it'd be reason enough to get rid of him."

"So now your vote's on the KGB?"

Doyle shook his head. "No, that doesn't make sense. Much as I hate Willis, I don't think he'd be tied up with that lot. Besides, the KGB wouldn't have risked leaving the job to those punks last night. They'd've sent one of their own."

"Not necessarily," Bodie pointed out. "Look at the two jokers Kovak had on the payroll."

Doyle sighed. "True. Christ, if the old man hadn't managed to figure it all out, how the hell can we hope to?"

Bodie didn't answer, but there was a remote expression in the dark eyes, as if his thoughts had traveled to somewhere far away and not very pleasant.

"Bodie? What is it?"

Standing, Bodie glanced at his watch. "Getting on to lunch time. You hungry? Do you have any food in?"

"Should have," Doyle replied absently, wondering what he'd said or done to bring back the tension. He watched as the other man headed toward the kitchen. Suddenly uneasy, Doyle sensed something was wrong, but couldn't pin it down. Impulsively, he levered himself off the couch, finding it less painful than he had expected, and followed Bodie. In the doorway, he paused uncertainly. Bodie was rummaging through the ancient refrigerator.

"Bodie, what's wrong?"

Not bothering to dissemble, Bodie straightened, closing the refrigerator door and turning to face him. "Are you sure you want to get mixed up with all this, Ray?"

Dismayed, Doyle stared at him. Bodie still doubted his motives, didn't trust him. While he couldn't blame him, it hurt. Because of that, he snapped, "Don't have a lot of choice, do I? They came looking for me, mate. Guilt by association. They think I'm part of it, whether I am or not."

Bodie's face was unreadable, but there was an almost imperceptible stiffening of the shoulders. "So get out of it; go away from London for awhile. It'll blow over eventually."

"What makes you think they'll let me?" Doyle countered, furious with Bodie for trying to shut him out again.

"Well, there's a better chance they will if you're not hanging around me, stirring up more dirt. Look what they've done to you already. And it's bound to get a lot worse if we get anywhere near the truth." He turned away. "I shouldn't have come here. It was a bad idea."

The more Bodie said, the angrier Doyle felt. "So you think I should find a nice corner to hide in, is that it?"

"That's not what I meant -- " Bodie protested, but Doyle cut him short.

"Yes, it is. That's precisely what you meant. But it's not exactly my style, is it? You really think I'd cut out on you now? Find a nice safe hidey-hole and wait for them to kill you, too?!" He was working himself up to a fine rage now. "You stupid bastard, I thought you knew me better than that."

Bodie whipped around, goaded a little too far. "That cuts both ways, Doyle. I thought you knew me, too. But a month ago you wouldn't see beyond your own nose, let alone give me credit for any sense at all! No, you thought you had it all figured out!"

As if the plug had been pulled, the anger drained from Doyle. "I deserved that," he said quietly. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry!" Bodie shouted. "Dammit -- !" He shut up abruptly and leaned back against the cabinet, checking his own temper. "I don't want to fight with you, Ray."

"Me neither," Doyle choked, mouth dry. "Listen, if you really want, I'll...I'll get out of your way."

Bodie looked up, confused. "In my way? Where did you get that idea? Christ, Ray, I need you."

"Then why -- ?"

"Because I don't want you to get hurt anymore just because I'm too stubborn to let something go. Remember what you told me? Whether I'm right or wrong, nothing's going to bring Cowley back, is it?" He looked down at the floor. "I don't want to risk you, too."

Doyle felt a sunburst of relief -- and another emotion he couldn't put a name to.

He took a step forward. "Hey, I think we're both in too deep to back out now, even if we wanted to. And I don't want to. I need to find out, too, mate. No, it won't bring him back, but I can't imagine the old sod resting easy if we let this go without a good bloody effort at finding the truth." Moving still closer, he touched Bodie's shoulder, wishing he would look at him, needing to say something more, but finding it difficult to express.

"It's more than that, Bodie," he said finally, his voice very soft. "I'm glad you're here with me. I missed you something 'orrible."

The blue eyes lifted then, and they held a sweetly shy expression. "I missed you, too." It was hardly more than a whisper.

Never quite sure how it came about, they were suddenly holding each other very tightly.

Doyle, feeling a dangerous prickling in the corners of his eyes, kept his head down on the broad shoulder, embarrassed to let it be seen.

"Listen, Bodie," he said shakily, "don't ever let me do that again. Straight up, mate. Next time I won't listen to you, just thump me, okay?"

Bodie chuckled, squeezing him a little tighter. "Nice thought, but I can't picture you appreciating the effort. You'd mop the floor with me."

"No," Doyle said earnestly. "No, I promise. From now on, I'll believe you. Honest I will."

Bodie smiled, both at the humble words and the tickle of curls against his ear. "Bull. Gentle Raymond, meek and mild just isn't you at all, love."

"Maybe not," Doyle admitted stubbornly, "but I can learn."

"Not a chance. Besides, I like you better all sarky and evil-tempered. Makes me feel superior, it does. You're kinda cute when you're ratty."

"'S not ratty," Doyle protested half-heartedly, "It's just my artistic streak comin' through. All artists are temperamental."

Neither of them really wanted to let go, but the seconds were ticking away and they were both becoming self-conscious of the passing time. A quick, macho hug was one thing -- this was lasting altogether too long for easy rationalization.

Finally, with a disconcerted laugh, Bodie pushed him back playfully, a little flustered at how good the contact had felt. "What the 'ell are we doin' anyway? Hangin' all over each other like long lost sweethearts or somethin'."

"Almost feels like it," Doyle countered with a sheepish grin. "After all, I spent more time with you than with any of me birds, didn't I?"

"That's understandable," Bodie said smugly, "I'm better lookin' than most of 'em."

Doyle gave him an affectionate bop on the arm. "Prat. Eh, I thought you were going to cook us up some lunch. I'm starving."

"Me?"

---

"What the 'ell is that?" Bodie stopped dead on the pavement, surveying the lime green Volkswagen "bug" with amused disbelief.

"S' my car," Doyle retorted defensively. "What's wrong with it? Cost me over a hundred quid, that did."

"Bodie sniggered. "And they saw you comin' mate. Cost you nearly that to have it hauled away."

"Sod off," Doyle growled. "I'll have you know, it has a good little motor, only 86,000 k's on the odometer, decent tires and -- " he cast an apprehensive look at the leaden sky. " -- and let's take your car, okay?"

Bodie did a slight double-take. "What, does the roof leak?"

"No, it...doesn't like to start in damp weather. And you can wipe that smirk off your mug; every old car has its eccentricities. Kind of like old partners. Besides, you're payin' out the nose for that shiny matchbox of yours; might as well get some use out of it."

Hiding his smile, Bodie dug out his car keys. "I'm just grateful you don't expect me to hop on the back of your bike."

They were half way to Elizabeth's when Bodie suddenly speeded up the mini and made an illegal turn. Doyle didn't need to ask why; he watched the side mirror until he saw the blue sedan make the same illegal turn.

"Not being so careful anymore, are they?" he commented.

"Don't need to be, do they? They know we know." Making sharp left turn, Bodie cut in front of a Volvo, putting a little more distance between them and their tag. "But I don't like it. I'd rather they k