Chapter Text
The early afternoon sun shone brightly over London. CI5 agent Bodie cruised his silver Ford Capri easily through the Saturday afternoon traffic, one arm resting lazily on the ledge of the open window, the fingers of his other hand drumming lazily on the steering wheel in time to the music coming from the radio. On a rare weekend off, he’d spent the morning at the gym before heading into the city to shop for some new clothes, to update his already ‘height of fashion’ wardrobe, and was now planning a spot of lunch at a local pub, chatting up luscious Lorraine, the barmaid. So far she was resisting his charms, but Bodie could tell she was weakening. He smiled to himself as he tooled the car around a corner, a pleasant breeze wafting in through the window as he did so.
As he straightened the car up, his R/T burst into life.
“Alpha 1 to 3-7.”
Bodie pressed the button and said “3-7.”
The dispatcher’s voice came back to him.
“Are you with anyone 3-7?”
Bodie frowned. “With anyone?” he repeated, indignantly. He was on his own time now, who he was with was none of their business. “Why?”
The dispatcher picked up on his tone and replied frostily. “Mr.Cowley wants to speak to you - alone. Are you alone?” she asked, in a ‘Don’t start with me, I’m only doing my job’ tone.
“At this moment, yes.” Bodie bit back.
“Hold on.” The line went dead and, a moment later, the rich Scottish burr of the Chief of CI5, George Cowley, came on the line.
“Bodie. Are you alone?”
Bodie gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes, Sir.” he replied, wondering what all the secrecy was about.
“Do you know Doyle’s whereabouts?”
Bodie looked puzzled. “He’s probably at the gym,” he replied, glancing at his watch “or out on a bike ride. Why?”
“Where are you?” asked Cowley, ignoring the question. Bodie told him.
“Come in to HQ.” barked Cowley. “I have something to discuss with you.”
“But…” Bodie began to protest, but Cowley cut him off.
“I am aware you’re off duty, Bodie, but it’s important.”
Bodie sighed, resignedly. “On my way, Sir.”
He switched off the R/T, and turned the car around, wondering what was going on.
He arrived at CI5 headquarters ten minutes later and went to find Cowley, who was in the Operations Room looking grim.
“Does the name Julia McKenna mean anything to you?” Cowley asked him.
“Why?” Bodie asked, in surprise, wondering why Cowley would be interested in Doyle’s current girlfriend. But Cowley was in no mood to indulge Bodie’s penchant for answering a question with a question.
“Bodie!” he snapped, glaring at him angrily.
“Yes, Sir.” Bodie got the message. “She’s a… friend of Doyle’s.”
“Girlfriend?”
Bodie nodded, cautiously, uncomfortable with discussing Doyle’s personal affairs without him being present.
“How long?” snapped Cowley.
Bodie shrugged. “Five or six months…”
“Serious?”
“It’s not something we talk about…” Bodie began, wondering what this was all about.
“In your opinion then.” Cowley cut in, exasperatedly.
Bodie pursed his lips. “I’d say… pretty serious, yes.” he said finally.
Cowley frowned, and there was an oddly distracted look in his eyes.
“Is something wrong, Sir?” Bodie ventured.
Cowley came back from his thoughts.
“Yes. I’m afraid she’s dead.”
Bodie’s jaw dropped. “Dead?”
Cowley nodded.
“How? What happened?”
“She must have been in Doyle’s house. One of his neighbours heard a commotion and saw her being dragged off by two men. The neighbour had the forethought to take the registration number of the vehicle and notified the police. Because the addresses of our people are on the police’s Special Attention files, they notified me. The police spotted the car and followed it. A girl’s body was found in the boot.”
“How do you know it was Julia?” asked Bodie.
“The police found a handbag at Doyle’s house. There was an I.D. card in it with a photograph. It matched the body.”
Bodie looked sick.
“That’s why I wanted to know how close she and Doyle were, to try and gauge his reaction.”
Bodie looked at him. “Even if he hardly knew her, he’d hardly be jumping for joy.” he snapped.
Cowley studied him. “Has he ever told you about Marianne Travers?” he asked.
Bodie shook his head.
“Or Bob Peters?”
“No. Why?”
Cowley sighed. “Come with me.”
He led the way upstairs to his office and buzzed his secretary.
“Bring me Doyle’s file.” he barked into the intercom.
“Yes Sir.”
Cowley sat down behind his desk, indicating for Bodie to sit down on the chair in front of it.
“Do you know who did it?” Bodie asked, as he sat down.
“The car is registered to Joey Mulholland, a small time gangster with a lot of connections. He wasn’t driving the car and claims it must have been stolen while he was away on business.”
“Could this be something to do with Mottola?” Bodie asked.
Cowley raised his eyebrows in a shrug. “They’re working on the driver now. We’ll soon know.”
Betty, Cowley’s secretary, entered the room carrying Doyle’s file.
“Thank you.” Cowley took the file and set it down on his desk as Betty left.
Cowley selected two reports and passed them to Bodie who began to read the top sheet.
Marianne Travers, the report said, had been Doyle’s fiancé at the time he joined CI5. He had been on the squad just six months when he and his then partner, Andy Payne, had exposed a terrorist cell operating in the city. The terrorists had gone to jail, but their superiors had sought revenge on the agents who had exposed them.
One night, when Andy had invited Doyle and Marianne over to his apartment, for a meal, a sniper had tried to take them out.
His first shot had been aimed at Andy, through the window of the lounge, as they’d sat around the dining table, but Andy had moved at the crucial moment, the bullet striking Marianne instead as Andy and Doyle dived for cover while the sniper attempted to finish his task. After a few more unsuccessful shots, the sniper had been forced to give up and make a retreat before he could be apprehended. Marianne, they discovered, had died, instantly, from a wound to the neck.
The incident had shot Andy’s nerve, and he had resigned from the squad three months later, afraid of further attempts on his life. Doyle, in typical Doyle fashion, after a brief spell of compassionate leave, for Marianne’s funeral, had never discussed the incident again, refusing the offer of counselling and throwing himself into his work with ruthless determination.
Bodie shuffled the papers and began to read the second report.
As a rookie cop in the police force, long before joining CI5, Doyle had been partnered by Bob Peters, an old friend of his later Father. Peters was an experienced cop, who treated Doyle more like a son than a new recruit.
One night, while investigating a burglary report at a local warehouse, they’d accidentally walked in on a gang of counterfeiters. A gun battle had followed. Doyle, still inexperienced, had got himself cornered and Peters had broken cover to help him, catching a bullet in the chest in the process.
His intervention had given Doyle time to get out of trouble, and, minutes later, back-up had arrived to round up the gang. Peters, however, had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, without ever regaining consciousness.
Doyle had been absolved of any blame in the incident, the authorities concluding that, if they had known that they were walking in on an armed gang, and not merely a burglar, as they had been led to believe, that Peters would not have entered without arranging back-up first. Since Doyle was a new recruit, under Peters’ supervision, he could not be expected to know how to deal with the situation they had found themselves in. Doyle, however, had always blamed himself for the death of his Father’s friend.
Bodie put down the reports, his expression sombre.
“He’s never said a word to me about any of this.” he said, quietly.
Cowley nodded. He wasn’t surprised. He’d never discussed it with anyone, not even Cowley himself. But, if there was anyone he might have discussed it with, Cowley thought it might have been Bodie.
“Now do you see why I’m concerned about his reaction?” he asked. “Losing one person in such circumstances – you could put that down to bad luck. Two is a tragedy. Three…?” Cowley shook his head. “Doyle’s tough, but every man has his breaking point, and you know yourself, he takes things to heart.”
Bodie nodded. “Yeah, and keeps them locked in there.”
Cowley nodded agreement.
“Our people have taken over the case from the police and are checking Doyle’s place over for clues” he told Bodie now. “She must have put up a struggle, the place is in a bit of a mess apparently. When Doyle gets home, I’ve instructed them only to say that there’s been a burglary. I don’t think he should hear the news about Miss McKenna’s death from just anyone.” Cowley sighed. “I would do it myself, but I have a meeting in an hour that I can’t put off.”
“So you want me to do it?” Bodie looked anguished.
Cowley nodded. “If it has to be anyone else, I think it would be better coming from you.” he told him. “Obviously, I can’t order you to do it, it’s my responsibility, but I doubt I’ll get away from this meeting before seven, and we can’t wait until then to tell him. It wouldn’t be right.”
“No.” agreed Bodie. He sighed, heavily. “Alright. I’ll do it.”
“Thank you.” said Cowley. “I’ll be along as soon as I can get away.”
Bodie left and went downstairs to his car. He climbed inside and put the keys in the ignition, but didn’t immediately start the engine. Instead, he sat, staring vacantly out of the window, thinking how unfair it was to lose three people in such violent circumstances and wondering how to break the news to him.
Presently, he started the engine and drove off, his face grim.
It was five o’clock when Bodie pulled up across the street from Doyle’s mews house. The other CI5 operatives had now finished their investigations and left. Doyle’s gold coloured Ford Capri was parked, somewhat haphazardly, thirty yards down the road.
With a grim sigh, Bodie got out of the car and crossed the street to Doyle’s front door.
The door frame was splintered, and the lock broken, obviously forced open by a crowbar.
Bodie tapped on the door and went inside, stepping over the remains of a broken vase and a brass coal shuttle which had been knocked off the hearth, spilling its contents of dried grasses all over the carpet.
Across the room, Doyle was crouched by the side of a coffee table, a waste paper bin in one hand and what looked like a key ring in the other. He looked up as Bodie entered.
“Cowley call you too?” he snapped, a momentary flash of anger in his eyes as the lack of privacy they had to suffer as a consequence of working for CI5, feeling resentful that their men had been in and gone over the place even before he’d got home.
Bodie nodded, glancing around the room, his hands stuffed into the pockets of the jersey bomber jacket he was wearing. He looked apprehensive, but Doyle, still stunned, and not a little annoyed, by the break in, didn’t pick up on it.
Doyle straightened up. “Well, since you’re here,” he lifted the plastic bin liner out of the waste bin and shoved the bin into Bodie’s hand “you can help me clean this mess up. There’s a broom in the kitchen cupboard.”
“I’m not here socially.” Bodie said quietly, taking the half full bin liner from Doyle’s hand and stuffing it back inside the bin. He turned to put the bin down on the coffee table, while Doyle raised a quizzical eyebrow.
As he bent to put the bin down, Bodie momentarily closed his eyes as he mentally drew himself up for what he had to do. He’d done this a hundred times before, and, while it was an unpleasant task, it had never churned him up like he was now. But then he’d never had to do it to a friend before.
Swallowing, he straightened up and turned to face Doyle.
“This was no random burglary.” he told him. “Burglars take T.V.’s, cameras, VCR’s, hi-fi’s…” His gaze moved pointedly to Doyle’s T.V. and hi-fi units, still standing untouched, and undamaged, on their respective stands.
Doyle’s eyes followed Bodie’s gaze. He had already had those thoughts himself, but hadn’t, as yet, made any further analysis as to who might have broken in or why. He nodded acknowledgement of Bodie’s words.
“They came for you,” Bodie said now, shifting his gaze back to Doyle, who was staring thoughtfully at the T.V. “but they found Julia.”
Doyle’s eyes snapped onto Bodie’s face.
“Julia was here?”
Bodie nodded.
Doyle looked down at the key ring in his hand. “I thought she’d left this behind last night.” He said thoughtfully. “I was just wondering why I hadn’t noticed it there, on the table, this morning.” He stroked the little pixie figure, attached to the key ring, with his thumb, pondering on what had brought her to the house today, without telling him. Then, suddenly, his thoughts gelled and his anguished gaze snapped back onto Bodie’s face.
As he opened his mouth to speak, Bodie, knowing what he was going to say, said “I’m sorry, Ray… she’s dead.”
Doyle stared at him, not seeming, for a moment, to have taken in Bodie’s words. Then he shook his head.
“No…” he gasped, in a strangled whisper.
Bodie nodded. “I’m sorry, Ray.”
“No…” Doyle said again, beginning to back away, his breath coming in short, strangled, gasps. “No.” He lifted his hands and shoved them into his tousled curls, his fingers curling into fists around chunks of hair. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Dear God, not again.
“Ray… I…” Bodie reached out to him, not liking the look that had come into his eyes, like a wild animal cornered by some predator.
“No.” Doyle repeated, his voice barely a whisper. Dropping his hands, he stepped back, out of reach of Bodie’s outstretched hand, still shaking his head in denial. His face had gone deathly white and he was gasping for air like a fish out of water. He brought his left fist up and pressed it to his chest, hunching over, looking as though he were about to have a seizure of some kind as grief bubbled up inside him, choking him.
Turning, he started towards the door, wanting to get out, away, to be anywhere, other than here. Then perhaps none of this would be happening.
Bodie grabbed for his arm, afraid of what he might do if he ran off.
“Ray, no…”
“No...” Doyle tried to pull free of his grasp, making funny wheezing and gurgling noises.
Bodie tightened his grip and tried to steer him towards the sofa. They tussled for several moments, as Doyle tried to reach the door and Bodie tried to pull him back into the room, before Doyle, overcome, gave up the struggle and sank to his knees at Bodie’s feet, Bodie still holding onto his arm, and slumped against Bodie’s legs.
“Ray…” croaked Bodie, as Doyle pressed his forehead against Bodie’s knees and let out a howled “Noooo…” breaking into gut wrenching sobs that vibrated up through Bodie’s body, causing it to jerk in harmony.
Oh, God, this is awful. Why did you make me do this? Bodie mentally cursed Cowley. He could imagine Cowley’s reply to that question. ‘These things are character building.’ Character building? It was breaking his bloody heart!
It occurred to Bodie that perhaps Cowley had expected Doyle’s reaction and had given him the job of breaking the news because he couldn’t face it himself. Underneath his harsh and unforgiving manner, Cowley was a sensitive, and highly passionate, man, who cared deeply for all of the men in his employ, although he tried hard not to let it show, and succeeded most of the time. Very occasionally, he would lower his defences and give a glimpse of the man inside, but he hated anyone to see it, believing, mistakenly, that he would lose respect if the men saw that he had a softer side. Those who knew him well, respected him all the more for it, not less. Seeing Doyle in this state, Cowley would have found it difficult to maintain his composure.
Bodie bent to haul Doyle up off the floor and deposited him on the sofa, fighting his own tears as he looked down at Doyle, who curled up in the corner of the sofa, one arm folded on the arm, his face buried in the crook of his elbow, sobbing uncontrollably.
Bodie crouched down at the side of the sofa and put a hand on Doyle’s shoulder.
“Ray…” he croaked, but Doyle was oblivious to him, to everything, completely overcome, not just by the news of Julia’s death, but because it had happened again. Three times his work had caused the death of someone he cared for and he couldn’t handle it again.
With a sigh, Bodie stood up, drawing the edge of his little finger beneath one eye. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he set about clearing away the broken ornaments. He righted the upturned standard lamp and straightened the squashed lampshade as best he could, and replaced the dried grasses in the brass coal shuttle before standing it back on the hearth. He then put the chairs and cushions back in their proper positions before going into the kitchen and plugging in the kettle.
He looked through the cupboards until he found a jar of coffee and, taking a mug from the mug rack on the worktop, made himself a drink. He toyed with the idea of making Doyle some hot, sweet, tea – that was what you were supposed to give people who’d had a shock, wasn’t it? – but a glance at Doyle told him it was a waste of time.
Bodie drank the coffee seated on a stool at the breakfast bar that divided the kitchen from the dining area, feeling completely out of his depth.
Although he and Doyle shared that rare closeness that only partners in their line of work could do, trusted each other totally, watched each other’s backs, shared the pressures and the emotional backlash that the job forced on them, their relationship was never discussed openly, and, more often than not, any ‘down’ periods by one would be handled with jokes and repartee from the other. It was how they coped with what could otherwise be unbearably depressing situations. Bodie had seen Doyle choked up at the sight of charred and mutilated bodies of the innocent victims of the crooks and terrorists that they fought to eliminate and, sometimes, anger and frustration would bring him to the edge of tears. But, in all the time he had known him, Bodie had never seen him like this, and he had no idea how to deal with it.
He’d known that Doyle would be cut up about Julia’s death - they’d been having a pretty intense relationship these last few months – but hadn’t expected a reaction like this.
With a sigh, he drained the last of the coffee and rinsed out the cup before going back into the lounge. It had been almost an hour since he’d broken the news, and Doyle was still completely grief stricken, his sobs periodically interspersed with wails of despair.
Bodie crouched down by the sofa and put a hand on Doyle’s shoulder.
“Ray?” he called, softly. “Ray?” But Doyle ignored him.
Bodie stood up and crossed to the window. It was beginning to get dark now. He glanced up and down the street. A uniformed police officer stood guard at the end of the street, no doubt organised by Cowley.
Bodie closed the curtains and switched on a small lamp on the coffee table. A sudden shiver of cold shook him and he moved to turn on the gas fire before going to bolt the front door shut from the inside, making a mental note to get the door fixed in the morning.
He paced about the room, uncomfortable listening to Doyle’s anguished sobs, but not knowing what to do to help him.
He contemplated switching on the T.V, but it seemed disrespectful somehow. He knew Doyle had a portable set in his bedroom, but he wouldn’t have dreamed of going to use it without his permission and so he returned to the kitchen and sat at the breakfast bar, reading the daily newspaper that Doyle had brought back with him from the gym earlier that afternoon.
When he next went to check on Doyle, he found he’d fallen into an exhausted sleep.
Bodie fetched a blanket from the closet and gently covered him with it. His arm had slipped down off the arm of the sofa and his head now rested against it. His face was puffy from crying, and, even asleep, his expression was anguished.
Bodie switched the T.V. on and turned the volume down low, glancing across at Doyle to make sure it hadn’t disturbed him before crossing to the armchair and sitting down to watch it.
Half an hour later there was a soft knock at the door. Bodie opened it to find Cowley on the doorstep.
“Sorry it took me so long.” said Cowley, in his rich Scottish burr. “How is he?”
Bodie lifted his finger to his lips and mimed ‘Ssh’. Glancing over his shoulder at Doyle’s sleeping form, he stepped outside and pulled the door to behind him.
“Bodie?” Cowley prompted, sharply, when he offered no reply to his question.
Bodie opened his mouth to reply and then closed it again, feeling suddenly choked. Cowley’s sharp eyes noticed the anguish in his face and saw the nerve that twitched in his jaw when he was angry, or upset, and he moderated his tone slightly, only very slightly, although the compassion was there, in his eyes, for Bodie’s obvious distress.
“I said, how is he?”
Bodie cleared his throat. “Not good.” He said finally, his voice uncharacteristically gruff. “He just went completely to pieces. He sobbed his heart out for over an hour—“ Bodie broke off, abruptly, as his voice threatened to break. He cleared his throat again and then said “He fell asleep about three quarters of an hour ago.”
Cowley nodded, his expression impassive, but his beady eyes full of concern.
“You’ll stay with him?” he asked.
Bodie nodded.
“May I see him?” Cowley spoke softly, but the command was there in his voice nevertheless and Bodie turned and led the way inside without any protest.
Cowley stopped, a couple of yards away from the sofa, and studied Doyle’s sleeping form, while Bodie studied Cowley’s face. His expression and manner were businesslike, but his eyes were bright with a mixture of compassion, concern, and anger at the people who had inflicted this tragedy on one of his men; one of his best men.
“Would you like a coffee, sir?” Bodie whispered, keen for some company after sitting here alone for the last couple of hours.
Cowley nodded.
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” Bodie whispered, before leaving the room. In the kitchen, he filled the kettle and put coffee into two mugs. As the kettle boiled Cowley entered the kitchen.
Rather than sit at the breakfast bar, he walked into the dining area and seated himself at the dining table.
Bodie carried the mugs over and placed them on the table before pulling out a chair and sitting down on the opposite side.
“Thank you.” said Cowley, picking up the mug and taking a sip.
“Sir?” Bodie said presently, his gaze fixed on his mug.
“Yes, Bodie.”
Bodie sighed, heavily. “With all due respect, Sir… don’t ever ask me to do something like this again.”
Cowley studied him over the rim of his mug.
“Situations like this are… difficult… I know that, but, they build character.”
Bodie gave a snort that almost turned into a choked sob.
“I knew you’d say that.” he said, shaking his head. “All it’s done for me is rip my guts out.”
Cowley nodded, thoughtfully. “But you’re not the person who counts here.” he said quietly. “Think what you’ve done for him.”
“I’ve done nothing for him!” Bodie said disgustedly.
“Wrong.” said Cowley. “To start with, you’ve saved him the embarrassment of having to be told the news by a stranger, and of embarrassing himself in front of them, and the other men on the squad. I know, and he’ll know, that you’ll never breathe a word of what’s happened here today, to anyone, or think any less of him for his behaviour, and I know he’ll be grateful for that. You’ve put your own feelings aside – and I know you’re upset about this too – to support him in his hour of need. That’s what I mean by ‘character building’,” Cowley sipped his coffee “doing the right thing even though it’s something you hate.” He paused, briefly, before continuing.
“At HQ, they all think you’re a hard hearted bastard who only looks after number one, but, if the chips were down, every one of them would want you with them, and that’s because, deep down, they know that you’d put your life on the line for any one of them. That’s character.” Cowley said, proudly. “CI5’s brought it out of you, but it was there all the time. I don’t pick people for my team if they haven’t got it.”
Bodie said nothing.
Cowley sighed. “Doyle has it too, or rather had it. I’m worried what this will do to him, which way he’ll turn.”
“Sir?” Bodie looked puzzled.
“Who he might blame. What he might do.”
“Revenge, you mean?” asked Bodie.
Cowley nodded.
Bodie shook his head. “Doyle’s not the type.”
“Every man is ‘the type’ if he’s pushed far enough,” said Cowley “and Doyle is more sensitive than people know.”
Bodie raised an eyebrow. In the two and a half years they’d been teamed together, Bodie had come to know Doyle’s ‘sensitive’ side, although the rest of the men at HQ, and the crooks and grasses that Doyle had in his pocket, thought he was as hard as nails. Bodie knew that Cowley knew them better than that, but he didn’t think even he knew them that well. But then, that was why he was chief of CI5 and why CI5 was so successful.
“Do you need anything?” Cowley asked now.
“No. I’m going to send out for a pizza and watch T.V. for a while then I’ll try and get some shut eye.”
Cowley nodded. “Right. I’ll be going then. There’s a police officer on duty at the end of the street, so you shouldn’t have any trouble, but, if you do…”
“I can handle it.” Bodie spoke over him. “Trouble is easy compared to this.”
Cowley nodded. “Keep me informed.” he instructed, getting to his feet.
Bodie nodded and followed Cowley into the lounge.
Cowley paused, briefly, to cast an anxious eye over Doyle’s sleeping form before leaving.
“Goodnight, Bodie.” he said, as he stepped into the street.
“Sir.” acknowledged Bodie.
Cowley crossed to his car and Bodie bolted the door. He called for a pizza and ate it in the dining room. Then he settled down to watch a film on T.V. but dozed off halfway through it.
When he woke up, the T.V. was buzzing with static. He switched it off and looked at his watch. It was two a.m. He turned to look at Doyle, who had shifted position slightly, so that his head was tilted backwards into the corner, where the arm of the sofa met the back, causing him to snore softly. Bodie took a cushion and, very carefully, lifted his head and placed it behind him. Doyle did not stir.
Bodie pulled the blanket more closely around him and then, turning the lamp off, curled up in the armchair with a cushion under his own head. In a few minutes he was asleep.
continued