Indelibly Marked part 3/8
Indelibly Marked
By
Dawnwind
Part three of eight
"Did you get film? A photograph, anything?" Doyle pushed, his brain buzzing with the need to find Bodie. Now.
"Cowley's put a rush on having the film developed, and I was to find you and…" Murphy gestured down the hall. "Take you back to his office." He swallowed, guilt written large over every inch of him. "Doyle, I'm…"
"Don't apologize, damn you!" Doyle swung around, rage enveloping him. Murphy held his ground, but it was a near thing. Doyle could sense Murphy's need to retreat. "Don't you dare tell me you're sorry that he's gone, because he isn't." Doyle smacked his hand once on Murphy's chest. "We will find him. Soon." He turned fast, bounding down the hall to the lift and Cowley's office, not looking back to see if Murphy was following.
Doyle burst into the office without knocking. "What do you know so far?" He planted himself in front of Cowley's desk.
The old man looked up at him, and for one moment, Doyle saw an unexpected glimpse of sympathy before Cowley pursed his lips and took off his thick-lensed specs. "Anson reported that he had lost the vehicle two hours ago-a large lorry cut him off and the Jaguar must have turned into a maze of streets. He never caught the tail again." Cowley shook his head. "We've reported the number plates to Scotland Yard, and they are coordinating with us to keep watch for the car."
Two hours ago? Why hadn't he been told immediately? Doyle knew there had to be more, but he didn't say a word.
Cowley pressed the intercom button to his secretary. "Betty, is the film back yet?"
"Yes, sir." Her voice sounded tinny through the small receiver. "The technician is literally walking in now."
"Good, have him come in and set up the projector," Cowley ordered. "And send out for some food that will fill us up-possibly meat pasties, or steak and kidney pie for two."
"I'll call O'Hara's," Betty promised. The intercom gave a loud click afterward.
"I'm not hungry," Doyle snarled.
"I am," Cowley said crisply. "We'll no doubt be analyzing the film and audio recording for a few hours and I, for one, do not want to rely on the fare in the vending machine downstairs."
A poxy-faced boy knocked and came in, bearing the film canister. "Where's your screen and projec…?" he started.
"I'll do it." Doyle practically had to wrestle the large canister from him, but the boy backed off with a sign from Cowley. Although one part of his brain was amazed at Cowley's support, Doyle didn't have time to dwell on that. The sooner they ascertained where Bodie might be, the sooner this whole thing would be over with.
The physical labour of unfolding the viewing screen and setting it up took out some of Doyle's frustration. At least it felt like he was doing something constructive. He threaded the leader of the film reel through the projector and switched on the machinery. Cowley watched silently, turning out the lights when the film was ready.
Immediately, the exterior of the Swan filled the screen, just as Bodie and Janssen walked out. A casual viewer might see two men chatting amiably, but Doyle could read every line of his partner's body. Bodie was fuming. His fists were jammed in his jacket pockets and his back was ramrod straight, the ex-military training showing through. Bodie gave Janssen a persuasive smile that almost stopped Doyle's heart, but the South Afrikaner shook his head violently. They stood on the kerb, obviously arguing for a few moments longer before climbing into a sleek black motor. The number plate on the back read XIN 449W.
Doyle was very glad of the darkness that hid his fear-infused anger from Cowley.
Why in the hell had the damned bloody fool gone in the car in the first place? No sense of self-preservation at all.
The film ended as the Jaguar pulled away from the kerb and rolled down the street. Doyle recognized a pale blue Cortina turning right directly behind Janssen's car. Anson on the move. Unfortunately, the van hadn't been able to follow with the camera rolling.
"McCabe stayed at the warehouse, but he never heard from Bodie, nor did Janssen ever show up there." Cowley flicked on his desk lamp, his large glasses reflecting the brightness so that he appeared blind.
"Which means that either that was just a smokescreen all along, to coax Bodie out." Doyle spoke to the film projector so that he didn't have to face his superior. Just then, he hated him.
"Or he doesn't need what Bodie was offering," Cowley concluded.
"Either way, he saw through Bodie. P'haps knew who he was." Doyle mashed the button to rewind the film. He would watch it again until he could lip read every single word Bodie and Janssen said to one another. "Or sussed that he was undercover." Each possibility was chilling to consider.
"Quite probably." Cowley nodded. "There was a driver in the car, a Negro, but we haven't placed him."
"Yeah." Doyle had noticed the chauffeur. Also from South Africa, or someone local whom they could track down?
"I'll have close-ups made of Janssen and his driver," Cowley said. He got up and walked over to the screen as if peering any closer to the grainy, slightly out-of-focus picture of the driver would help at all.
Betty came in with two beef pasties, chips and ginger beer whilst they were watching the film a third time. Cowley signalled a break for their dinner, and the two of them chewed in silence. Doyle would have preferred a real beer, but the first sip of the ginger stuff had a surprising bite. The spicy brew burned down his throat almost like whisky did. He picked at the chips and ate half of his pasty, mulling over the images of Janssen and Bodie getting into the car together. Would that be the last time Doyle ever saw Bodie again?
Fuck.
He took a fast gulp of ginger beer and swallowed wrong, coughing and sputtering. Coming in with the audiotape from the listening devices at the Swan, Murphy helpfully pounded him on the back.
Doyle waved him away, trying to breathe through the rattle in his chest. He hated that feeling of such vulnerability-like that day when he'd lain on the rug in his own flat, drowning in his own blood until Bodie arrived to save him.
Where was Bodie now?
And would Doyle be able to save him?
"Stick to whisky, laddie," Cowley said with gruff kindness, pouring him a small portion of the good stuff.
Keeping his head down, Doyle downed the whisky in one gulp. Probably not the right solution after nearly choking from a fizzy drink. The liquor sent flames down his raw throat, obliterating the sweetness of the ginger as well as momentarily removing Doyle's ability to speak.
He didn't have to. Murphy and Cowley were huddled over the old cassette tape recorder, trying to get it to work.
"Piece of junk, that," Murphy said, still avoiding looking Doyle straight in the eyes. He wiggled the power button. "Need to get one of those new ones, with micro technology."
"You have control of the purse strings?" Cowley asked archly. "We've just had all new computers installed in the communications centre. Cost more than you'll see in a single year, mark my words."
"S'truth," Doyle slurred, suddenly overwhelmingly angry. Here they sat, stuffing themselves with food and drink when Bodie…
"Mr. Janssen," Bodie's voice sounded different and slightly wrong on the tape player.
Murphy pressed stop and fiddled with the speed and volume for a few seconds before hitting power again.
"Mr. Janssen," Bodie said in a more normal tone. "What can I get for you? Wine? Beer? The owner makes a fine pilsner. I haven't had such a good one since I was in Berlin."
Doyle stuffed down all his rampant emotions to listen objectively to the conversation and try to glean any pertinent details. He dug his fingernails into his palm to keep from shouting at Bodie.
"I don't drink," Janssen said, his South African accent crisp and sharp next to Bodie's scouse. "Lemon squash, if they have it."
"I'll fetch one from the bar," Bodie said, the last word hard to make out since he'd obviously moved away from the transmitter taped underneath the table. The ambient noise of a busy pub filled the office: clinking glasses, muffled chatter and a loud guffaw of laughter.
"Could you see them from the van, Murphy?" Cowley asked, taking down notes on a pad.
Doyle glanced at what he was written, but it was all squiggles and curlicues. Shorthand, which he had never learned. His mother had considered it somehow feminine and insisted that her three daughters take secretarial courses, all the while pushing her son into maths and sciences. Which he had hated. Young Raymond had spent his time in school drawing cops and robbers in the margins of his papers. Doyle shook his head. He was daydreaming right when he should be on the alert.
"Not much in the way of windows in that pub," Murphy answered.
"Here you are!" Bodie said loudly. "Drink up."
"I had you checked out, Mr. Phillips."
Doyle had forgotten that Bodie was using two of his Christian names as an alias. Andrew Phillips. Lucky Bodie, having three on his birth certificate to Doyle's solitary Raymond.
"Yeah?" Bodie drawled. "You must have liked what you heard or you wouldn't have come back."
"Your sources were reliable-we know some of the same people." There was a pause and the sound of ice cubes clinking against glass. "Cusack said you can be trusted."
"Shall we while away the afternoon reliving old stories of tramps through the jungles of the Congo and Angola?" Bodie suggested.
Doyle could just see him, grinning fecklessly over his pilsner, those bright blue eyes full of mischief, hiding whatever thoughts he had for a man who made his living supplying guns to militias for hire.
"I'd prefer to discuss business," Janssen said, obviously unimpressed by Bodie's skills as a host. "You say you can get me 30 members of the Kalashnikov family, and some fireworks for a… match between two rival teams?" He used code for his shopping list, Russian guns and possibly rocket launchers, if Doyle had to guess. "Everything necessary for a really good bonfire."
"Whatever you require," Bodie agreed. "I have a warehouse full of…useful items. I simply need to see the cash. This is no post office, no credit or money orders accepted."
"I'm weighing offers," Janssen said. "What can you provide that the others cannot?"
"How do I know until you tell me what they offered?" Bodie hedged.
"Untraceable, on demand and no interferences from customs."
Daniels must be using his father's influence to cut through all the red tape and smuggle the guns out of the country, Doyle surmised.
"Customs is no trouble at all," Bodie assured. "We're a legitimate import and export firm, specializing in marmalades and teas. Loose tea mixed in with metal items reduces the smell. Trained dogs can't sniff out the gun powder."
"That was my idea," Murphy said proudly. "We had a surplus of tea things after that raid on the shop selling drugs out the back last month."
"Very good." Cowley nodded, frowning slightly as he listened.
"You have large enough quantities immediately available?" Janssen asked.
In the background, a woman giggled loudly and a glass broke. There were several seconds of chaotic noise before the three men in Cowley's office could hear what was being said again.
"-- my warehouse, I told you," Bodie said. "Give me your list and I'll have it filled by morning. All ready to ship out."
"I'd like to see your facilities today," Janssen insisted.
Just as Doyle had suspected. He bit down hard on the pasty crust. It had gone cold but it felt good to crush something under his teeth.
"I have my usual customers coming in to buy tea and jams," Bodie said smoothly. "Tours of the specialty items are by appointment only."
"I'm making an appointment. Now." Janssen's tone was soft but his meaning quite clear. Either now or not at all.
Bodie inhaled and cleared his throat. "Well, you'll have to wait while I have the merchandise crated. It would take a while-far easier for you to just come by in the morning."
"Mr. Phillips, my client is in a rush. He'd like his merchandise as quickly as possible, by today." Janssen pushed hard, brooking no argument. "If I am unable to tour your facilities, then our business is concluded."
"Ah, my friend, let's not be hasty…" Bodie must have stood, his voice was suddenly much fainter. "I'll need to ring up my clerk, have him start selecting the merchandise for your perusal."
"No need to use the phone when I have a car waiting outside," Janssen said. "Come, I insist. If you have a motor parked nearby, my man can drive you back to fetch it later."
Bodie was no fool, although Doyle wished to God that he'd found a way to back out of the deal. Doyle realized he was leaning forward as if he could hear the conversation better the closer he was to the tape recorder. Cowley glanced up at him, his expression inscrutable.
"How can I refuse an offer like that one?" Bodie asked dryly, and that was the last thing said on tape.
Cowley rewound the recording and they listened again, although Doyle had it off by heart the first time, and the old man had taken notes. Then they watched the film one more time.
"Krivas," Doyle said with loathing. "He's the key here. You thought that since Bodie had been in that life, he'd be accepted. But somehow, Janssen's found out that he's with CI-5."
"Complete conjecture," Cowley said quietly, folding his hands. "Krivas is in maximum security prison. All his calls are screened and his mail censored. I very much doubt he has any communication with his mates in South Africa. We've rounded up most of his confederates."
"Fuck!" Doyle jumped up, suddenly far too restless and angry to stay in the office a moment longer. "Get me the clearance to go up to up to Wakefield and interrogate Krivas and Westen."
"No," Cowley said with full authority. "Murphy will go. You have other work, and you're far too emotionally involved here."
"Yes, sir!" Murphy bobbed up like jack in the box. "I'll start the paperwork." He fled the office before Cowley could call him back.
Doyle was about to make his escape when Cowley cleared his throat. Such a small sound, but one filled with meaning. He was again surprised at Cowley's compassion and hated him for it, all the same. Because he didn't want sympathy, he wanted action.
"I know you're worried about Bodie." Cowley got up and poured a second round of whisky. Unheard of, and proved how concerned Cowley was, too. "Getting him back is of utmost importance, but there will be no going off cack-handed until we have irrefutable proof of where Bodie is." He placed the small glass in front of Doyle, waiting until he drank it down.
He's getting me drunk, Doyle thought as the whisky hit his stomach. He hadn't eaten much of the pasty, in fact, he'd ingested very little except alcohol all day. His head pounded with tension and pent up fear.
"Where did you go this morning?"
Picking up what was left of dinner, Doyle toyed out a piece of beef, and ate it without enthusiasm. "How'd you know I went anywhere?"
Cowley just looked at him without speaking. He had his finger on the pulse of all his agents. Too fucking bad he hadn't kept Bodie under better surveillance.
"Met with Daniels, didn't I?" Doyle answered eventually, feeling manipulated.
"And?"
"Just establishing rapport, nothing to report, sir." He stood belligerently. "May I go now, sir?"
Cowley nodded his assent. Doyle got as far as the door before he spoke again. "Doyle, I am not the enemy."
Sometimes, it's hard to tell. "I am aware of that." He glanced back at his superior, missing Bodie acutely. At times like these, Bodie was their go between, spreading the banter and black humour like butter on bread. "Is that all?"
"Keep me informed," Cowley said carefully.
Doyle heard the unsaid message plain as day-do what you can to find Bodie, with my blessing, but not CI-5's. He was more or less on his own.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wind hit his face like a physical beating, but Doyle paid it no heed, zooming down the carriageway far over the posted speed limit. He let the motorbike out full, zipping around slower cars and overtaking lumbering lorries with ease. The roar of the engine, the sheer velocity suited his mood, and blew a kind of calm into his brain. He had to trace Bodie's steps, find where he was and get him back. That meant going to the last place he had been.
It was near closing. A few stragglers left the Swan, calling out good nights to the proprietor. Doyle had no patience for small talk. He killed the speed on the motorbike, bringing it in behind the pub with a spray of gravel.
"There's a noise ordinance here," the owner said with disapproval, taking in the riding leathers and Doyle's disheveled hair.
"Just want a pint, no aggro." Doyle slung his helmet over the handlebars of the bike, standing akimbo, waiting for an answer. If he was refused, he'd have to push inside anyway. He'd try to be civil first.
"Already called ten minutes," he countered, but stepped back to let Doyle in as if sensing he'd get grief otherwise.
"I'll drink fast." Doyle glanced around the dim room, freezing out all memories of being there with Bodie. Of laughing and splashing beer on the table they'd chosen for the location of Bodie's meet with Janssen. It was on the far side of the room. There were only two other customers, both leaning on the bar rail, finishing up hard ciders, by the look of their glasses.
"What'll you have?" the pub man went behind the bar and took down a glass.
"Heineken," Doyle ordered for pure perversity's sake, since the Swan advertised Guinness.
"Fifty P." He drew up the beer and passed it over.
Dropping three twenty pence coins on the bar, Doyle carried his drink over to the table. Moving so far away would just give the owner one more reason to think Doyle was dangerous and antisocial. He took a long swallow of beer, staring down the last two patrons as they left. When the pub owner was occupied with closing up the till, Doyle stuck his hand under the table. It was the work of a moment to locate the bug, pull it free and walk out of the Swan. He briefly considered smashing the thing into the pavement, but Cowley would probably just reduce his wages for destroying CI-5 property.
Climbing back on his bike, Doyle rode slowly down Fulham to the intersection. He'd read Anson's report before leaving headquarters. Anson had followed the Jaguar for nearly half a kilometre before losing the tail-a long way from the pub, with dozens of side streets for a long black car to get lost in. And too many places to search for a missing partner. One thing was certain, the Jaguar had almost immediately gone the wrong direction to get to the warehouse in East Croyden.
Bodie had walked into a trap from the very start. Janssen had never intended to drive to the warehouse. Where had CI-5's intel gone wrong? Why hadn't they picked up that Janssen was onto Bodie?
Discouraged and vaguely hung over after an entire day downing alcohol, Doyle turned the bike around and headed for his flat. As much as he wanted to go looking straight away, there was nothing he could do in the middle of the night, with no leads.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Metropolitan police found a Jaguar with the number plate XIN 449W abandoned in a commuter car park just outside Windsor," Cowley said gravely, his hands pressed together as if he was praying, the tips of his fingers just touching his lower lip.
This was to be expected, and Doyle didn't let it faze him. What was more worrisome was that Bodie had now been missing for over 21 hours, and they had very little to go on. He didn't expect a ransom phone call or anything so ordinary, but some clue-some proof that Bodie was still among the living would be encouraging.
"Did you hear me?" Cowley asked.
"Yes, yes." Doyle pulled himself from his morbid thoughts. "Any dabs found in the car?"
"Not Janssen's-or Bodie's." Cowley frowned. "The vehicle had obviously been wiped clean." He held up a finger. "And before you ask. No blood, either."
Something that had been clenched in his belly loosened fractionally. Leaning against the credenza, Doyle nodded. "A professional, then, with the intent to throw us off the scent."
"A strong supposition." Cowley regarded Doyle for a long moment, taking in his riding leathers and striped t-shirt. "Charming ensemble, 4.5, for the second day in a row. Are you anticipating a gathering of Harley Davidson enthusiasts?"
"I wasn't aware you knew about cycle conventions, sir." On any other day, Doyle would have been very amused. As it was, he grinned as broadly as he could because, truth be told, picturing Cowley on a Harley would have sent Bodie into gales of laughter. "Going to meet an informant later-have to dress the part." He didn't know why he didn't admit that he was meeting Daniels. Going in without back-up or at least another agent keeping tabs on his was totally against policy and very, very dangerous.
Sod CI-5 regulations.
"You'd be surprised at the scope of my knowledge." Cowley raised an eyebrow. "I expect to be informed about all auxiliary inquiries."
Caught by a professional.
"I am continuing my surveillance of Edward Daniels," Doyle admitted finally. "Nothing at all dangerous or taxing to my recovery." He stood, anxious to get out of the room before Cowley probed any deeper.
"You have specific suspicions about Daniels beyond the original meeting with Janssen?"
Favoring his gammy leg, Cowley climbed awkwardly out of his chair, but didn't bar the door. He crossed his arms, waiting for more answers. "There are no reports on my desk to that end."
"No-I…" Doyle closed his hand around the doorknob. "I intended to write out the details yesterday, but I spent the evening watching Bodie drive off in a car worth eighteen thousand quid."
"Noted." Cowley gestured at the door. "Keep me informed, 4.5. And wear something acceptable the next time you come through these portals."
"Plus fours and a Windsor tie, sir, tomorrow." Doyle gave a sardonic bow. "I will be at the Highwayman pub, and then I'll be chasing up some of Daniels' former associates."
"Take your R/T."
"Ruins the line of my jacket, sir." Doyle escaped with his teeth clenched so tightly that his ears ached.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lunchtime was in full swing by the time he made it to the pub. The car park was crowded with cars, but Doyle had taken down the number plates the last time, run them through the license registry, and knew which one was Eddy Daniels'. He owned a gorgeous Maserati that stood out amongst the British-made cars like a peacock in a chicken yard. The lad certainly didn't shy away from conspicuous spending.
Doyle nosed the motorbike in close to the silver toned race car and walked slowly past as if admiring the vehicle. If he pried open the boot, what would he find inside? Guns? Drugs? Or something more nefarious, like Bodie's body?
He was resorting to flights of fancy, and that wasn't good when he needed to keep focused on his partner.
Damn, Bodie! Where the hell are you?
For all Bodie's poor excuse for humour and his irreverent ways, he was a brilliant investigator, and the only person who'd ever been able to cope with Doyle for more than a few months. They suited one another. More than that, they complimented each other, and Doyle feared that he was lose himself to his own pessimistic, mercurial ways soon enough without his partner as a barometer for his moods.
Daniels was holding court at the same table. Doyle positioned himself at the bar and got a ploughman's lunch and a pint. He leaned against the rail, eating the cheese, egg and bread without tasting a mouthful, watching his prey in the same Martini and Rossi mirror. Daniels and Thomson were deep in conversation, mostly ignoring Mosby, who pouted.
Not exactly sure whether he wanted to get their attention so early in the courtship, Doyle held his ground and drank beer. A bully boy elbowed up to the bar and demanded bitters in a loud, belligerent tone, blowing cigarette smoke in Doyle's face.
"Here you go, Vic." Bern, the bartender, the same bloke Doyle had seen the day before, shoved a beer down the counter.
"Took you long enough!" Vic groused, grabbing the glass. He took a swig and puffed on his cig, tapping ashes on the bar.
Coughing, Doyle turned sideways, keeping Daniels and company in sight without having to inhale the smoke cloud.
"Wot's your problem, berk?" Vic challenged, smacking Doyle on the arm for good measure.
"Just keeping to myself," Doyle answered over his shoulder, placing his empty mug on the counter.
"Well, I don't like the way yer doin' it!" Vic said hotly.
Pulling a draught for another customer, Bern eyed them warily, obviously torn between staying out of it and wading into the fray.
Doyle turned casually, putting one hand on the bar rail, right on top of Vic's hand. Grasping his opponent's pinkie, Doyle pulled back, all the while maintaining a deceptively calm exterior. "I'd like a bit of quiet," he said.
"Oy!" Vic's round, florid face went beet red, and he tried to jerk away.
Doyle jammed the base of his palm into Vic's wrist, flexing it backward in a most unnatural way. "You'd do well to vacate the premises, my lad," he said in a soft, seductive voice, putting a little more pressure on the digit.
"You'll break me hand!" Vic whinged, shoving at Doyle's arm.
All around them, the Highwayman patrons went quiet as if waiting for the next act in a play. Not one made a move to stop the drama.
"You ain't got no authority here!" he said petulantly.
"But I do," Eddy Daniels said in the same quiet tone Doyle had used. "I believe you have ears, and heard what the man said, Vic. You've been told on more than one occasion to find another pub. Shove off."
As if on cue, every man and woman in the pub ducked over their drinks, nervous chatter suddenly overly loud.
"He's bleedin' insane, 'e is!" Vic complained when Doyle let go and stepped back. "Didn't do nuffing' to 'im."
"Filthy habit." Doyle picked up the man's forgotten fag and dropped it into his beer. "Not at all good for your health."
"Bye, Vic!" Daniels smiled nastily, waggling his fingers under Vic's nose. "Go make friends with a sheep."
Thomson and Mosby guffawed at their boss' witticism, banging on the table in their merriment. Vic slunk out, muttering insults.
"You're a cool customer." Daniels gave Doyle a slow once over, lingering on his groin.
For the first time in his life, Doyle knew exactly how it felt to be undressed with just a look. He didn't like it at all. He used the irritation to overcome his satisfaction at getting Daniels' attention so easily. Maybe it was the tight jeans with the patch on the arse framed by the riding leathers after all. "I do all right." He banged his empty mug on the bar. "Another one, mate?" Doyle called to Bern who jumped to do his bidding as if he'd been goosed.
"You do more than all right," Daniels said smoothly. The heat of his gaze could have burned a hole right below Doyle's fly. "Bern, it's on my tab," he said to the bartender.
Daniels really did have these folks under his thumb.
"Ta." Doyle raised the glass and drank deeply to show his appreciation.
"I saw you in here yesterday." Daniels crossed his arms over his chest. He wore a short sleeved t-shirt that showed off a long snake twining down his arm from bicep to wrist. The serpent's red eyes seemed to glow malevolently. "Where're you from?"
"Here and there." Doyle shrugged, leaning back against the bar in a relaxed pose that Bodie would have said showed off his assets. "Mostly there. Worked up north for a bit until the situation got too hot, thought I'd move south for a more congenial atmosphere."
"Heard you tell Thomson you were looking for work," Daniels continued. "What kind of work you plan on doing?"
Doyle flicked a glance at the other members of Daniels' gang. Thomson looked back at him just as hard and Mosby smirked. "Whatever will bring in the guineas. I've done a bit of pen work, but I'm not too particular," he said, raising his chin to look blatantly into Daniels' eyes. He got a flicker of irritation from the man for the aggressive move, but also the impression that Daniels more than approved when he didn't back down.
"I'd say you had your standards." Daniels inclined his head at the door.
"Don't like smoke in me face," Doyle said flatly, trying to get a bead on Edward Daniels. For a man who'd gone to the best schools, he spoke with a common accent and only a bare hint of the elongated vowels of the upper crust. He affected the look of a street tough, but obviously moved between the two worlds effortlessly, judging by the car. In the photograph of Daniels talking to Janssen that Doyle and Bodie had seen in Cowley's office, the younger man had been dressed in country Lord of the manor style; a quilted jacket, dark slacks and neat shirt with braces. Very different than the Doc Martins, jeans and tee-shirt of today.
"What's your name?" Daniels asked.
"Ray Doyle." He didn't offer a hand, just stood quietly, all thoughts of Bodie banished to the farthest corner of his brain. Nothing to distract him.
"Edward Daniels." The dark haired man had a nasty grin that never lit up his deep brown eyes. "I might have a job for a git like you."
"Flattery won't pay the bills, Daniels," Doyle growled, picking up his beer. He'd gotten the offer even faster than he'd anticipated. "Where and when? Need something off the back of a lorry?"
"You're fast out of the blocks, I'll give you that," Daniels said. "Come back tomorrow, I have to talk it over with my cabinet."
"Member of Parliament, are you?" Doyle scoffed.
"As a matter of fact." Daniels grinned again, but didn't say more. "Meet me 'round the corner, on Ludlow Close, first floor, flat C. Half past one tomorrow."
"And if I don't?" Doyle pretended to be more interested in placing the beer mug precisely where it had been before, right over the wet circle left by the bottom of the glass.
"You'll miss out." Daniels leaned in far too close and purred into his ear. He tapped a long, slender finger on the vulnerable artery pulsing in Doyle's neck. "And I get the feeling that you never want that, Ray Doyle."
No, he did not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
part four