Second Guess - Part 5
Chapter 14
Something wet slid a trail down Bodie’s cheek and he risked a glance in the rear vision mirror. Blood, seeping from a small cut in his scalp. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and thinned his lips, knowing it could have been much worse before glancing across at Doyle.
He was sitting awkwardly, back arched away from the upholstery and Bodie recalled the lacerated shirt. “You OK?”
Doyle opened his eyes and stared blankly at him.
Bodie, belatedly remembering the effects of a close explosion on the eardrums raised his voice. “I said are you OK?”
Despite his groggy state Doyle cottoned on quickly, raising his own rasping voice in reply. “Yeah. You?”
“Had worse,” Bodie replied laconically. He nodded to the windscreen. “Any place in particular you want to go?”
Doyle gave a little shake and turned his head, taking in the scene outside the window. He recognised the landmarks, knew where they were. He had an idea. “Take the next right turn.”
Bodie looked around and arched a brow. “Not to any police station, Doyle. Not ready for that yet.”
“I figured that,” Doyle hissed through his teeth and teetered forward, away from the upholstery. “Next right again.”
The streets began to look vaguely recognisable as Doyle guided him and Bodie finally pulled up at outside a smart set of ground floor flats, quite modern and each with its own access into the cul de sac, shielded for privacy from the footpath by a small brick wall and a hedge. He gazed at them silently and Doyle raised an eyebrow. “Look familiar, does it?”
Bodie glanced at him sourly. “Better not be some sort of trick, Doyle.”
He alighted from the car and came to the passenger door as Doyle very carefully swung his legs around. The chain dropped to clank noisily at his feet and Bodie bent to pick it up. He coiled it in his hands out of Doyle’s way, careful not to tug on the already abused throat. Doyle looked singularly pitiful and Bodie’s lips twitched, a bit of devil may care surfacing.
“Come on, Fido,” he coaxed, clicking his tongue. Doyle shot him a look that would have stripped paint off cement and used the doorframe to extract himself, feeling pins and needles all over his back. Bodie without being asked gave him a hand, privately concerned. He suspected Doyle might have a lingering concussion if his current wobbly state was anything to go by.
They halted at the locked door of number seven and Bodie glanced across to his companion, waiting. Doyle leaned tiredly against the wall. “Use your key, Bodie.”
Bodie shot him a suspicious look.
“In your front pocket, you always put it there.”
He pulled out the key, the plain unadorned house key and looked at it, then he looked back at Doyle.
“No tricks, Bodie. It’s your place.”
Bodie turned, hesitating and inserted the key. He twisted his wrist and it clicked open. Doyle, impatient and hurting, pushed past him and switched off the alarms himself. It seemed months since he had last stood here, wondering where Bodie was. Right at this minute, he felt no closer to finding him.
Bodie followed him in, looking around curiously, nervous at what he’d find, still only half believing Doyle. It was neat, tidy, tastefully decorated. The sort of place Bodie often dreamed of having. There were minimal decorations, soft lamps, an expensive hi-fi, but nothing personal at all. Except for one small photo, tucked away almost out of sight on the shelving above the hi-fi. Bodie walked over to it, half aware of the jingling of the chain behind him, as Doyle moved familiarly around the room.
He picked up the small frame and found himself looking at a regiment photo. Black and white, there were about twenty men neatly in camouflage, all lined up formally. It was almost impossible to make out faces, it was too small, but the man at the back, third from the left. Bodie squinted and suddenly had a flash of blackness, the roaring of an aircraft, and falling, falling through that blackness, the wind and rain icy on his face, screaming past his ears, hands fumbling at the harness fastened to his back, looking for the cord and a great ghostly canopy above him.
“…4.5… put out a red alert for two more bombs, St Luke’s Hospital and Christian Brothers School, Priority…”
Doyle’s voice gradually penetrated, blasting the flashback to smithereens. Instinctively, Bodie spun around, dropping the frame back on the shelf and in three strides had reached Doyle, one powerful hand clamped down on the phone receiver and the other spinning the startled CI5 man around, and pinning him to the wall.
Doyle arched his back hissing, his face blanching alarmingly. Murderous midnight blue eyes glared at him and pushed beyond endurance Doyle retaliated instantly, swinging his fist up, all the fear and frustration and fury at his two days confinement contained in the force of that blow and it caught Bodie right on the chin. Bodie sprawled backwards and Doyle stood there breathing hard, anger coursing through that wiry frame, eyes narrowed and fierce. “That’s for leaving me tied to that bloody post for so long.”
Bodie very nearly smiled. Oh yeah, that temper, it was there all right and inexplicably he knew that Doyle was prone to it. Those sudden flare ups, out of nowhere, though in this case quite justifiable. He looked a mess and Bodie could see the smear of blood across the wall behind him. He softened slightly. “Your back’s bleeding.”
“Eh?” Doyle frowned, thrown by the sudden change of topic, the swift defusing of the fight he was itching for.
“Your shirt’s ruined as well, take it off and I’ll see to your back.”
“My back,” Doyle repeated dazedly. But even as he said it he could feel his back prickling, the cotton catching across his skin like a thousand piercing needles and it suddenly felt constricting, tight. He hauled the ruined shirt from his shoulders, savagely scrunched it up and threw it across the room. His temper was still high and his eyes flashed as he lashed out. “Christ, my back’s the least of my worries, I need to call in, warn them.” He bent to pick up the phone where it had fallen off the table, a faint beeping noise echoing from the handset but the floor suddenly moved sideways and he stopped immediately, surprised to feel a trembling in his limbs. His head swam giddily.
Bodie, observant enough to notice the light-headedness, stepped between Doyle and the phone and took his arm warily. That Doyle didn’t shake him off confirmed his initial guess of slight concussion, that and the fact that he knew Doyle had barely eaten anything for the past two days and was plainly running on empty.
Doyle stubbornly twisted again towards the phone, eyes glazing and his face, if possible, leeched even more colour. Bodie quickly supported him before he dropped and without any idea how he’d got there, Doyle found himself lying facedown on Bodie's bed, shivering and exhausted. His head was still swimming and his stomach rolled emptily. He could hear faintly, Bodie prowling the apartment, doors opening and closing and was baffled as to what he was looking for. Or what he’d find. Doyle was very conscious of Bodie’s ID, still in his jacket, in Doyle’s car, wherever that was now. Was there anything here? Anything that would give his sceptical partner proof? He couldn’t think and he gave up trying, laying his head down instead, wanting nothing more than to sleep.
Nausea threatened and he closed his eyes briefly, fighting his stomach, the darkness behind closed lids soothing. He opened them again as he felt the bed depress and twisted to look over his shoulder. Bodie was sitting next to him, close enough for Doyle to feel his warmth next to his cold skin and he had a small white box in his hands. It was stamped with a Pan Am insignia and Doyle nearly snorted with amusement. Bodie and his air hostesses. Head still swirling, he let his face rest against his forearms, immensely tired, prepared to let Bodie do as he would.
Bodie gravely considered the man lying in front of him, uncharacteristically passive, waiting. He felt rather startled at the CI5 agent’s open trust in him and was intuitive enough to know it wasn’t a trust undeservedly given. He searched for the source of that trust, but his mind unsurprisingly, refused to cooperate and Bodie, still suspicious, still not quite believing, could not find it in himself to trust back. A lone wolf, always. And yet Doyle featured prominently in the small jigsaw pieces that were slowly slotting into his empty memory. Doyle must mean something to him; he had to, as nothing else would explain why he went against all his better judgement around the man. He stared at the broad shoulders in front of him, golden skinned and streaked with blood. And scars. A couple of them, round like bullets. And another, straight - a surgeon’s mark. He touched the scars gently and short sharp images punctuated the greyness in his mind. An ambulance. An operating theatre. A green shrouded body forced back from the dead.
Shock him again!
Immense fear, bottled and contained. And blood, bright red blood on a white T-shirt.
Despite the chill of the room, a fine layer of perspiration cooled Bodie’s skin as the intense images faded away and he breathed evenly and slowly until the room came back into focus, but the fear remained, faint now but still there. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted that memory back.
He opened the first aid box he’d found in the bathroom cabinet but his mind flitted restlessly, trying to dredge up something, anything - but all tangible evidence still remained elusively out of reach. Instead, his sub-conscious traitorously supplied the images he didn’t want, the ones that haunted his dreams. Of him desperate to ascend a staircase to a window, a staircase he knew he couldn’t climb in time. In time for what? Again Bodie had a feeling it wasn’t a dream, more of a memory.
Doyle shifted restlessly on the bed, and Bodie returned his attention to him. His back was a mess, bleeding from numerous small cuts caused by the flying glass, all embedded in his skin, all leaking thin rivulets of blood. Bodie grimaced. He should have dumped him at the nearest casualty and then belatedly wondered if it still might not be a better idea. His first aid was rudimentary at best and some of the cuts looked quite deep. Armed with a towel and a pair of tweezers he began the laborious task of removing the many small pieces of embedded glass from Doyle’s skin. The linen shirt had been no protection at all and Bodie was glad he’d been wearing Connolly’s thick jacket, thus escaping the same injuries.
He trailed gentle fingertips over Doyle’s broad shoulders, feeling the muscles tense as they encountered sharp splinters, whereupon Bodie would swap his fingers for the tweezers to pluck them out one by one. The small dish began to fill with bloody bits of shrapnel and Doyle was rigid and gritting his teeth by the time Bodie had worked his way down to the waistband of his snug jeans. One or two required prodding with a needle and his patient swore lengthily and inventively, giving Bodie yet another murky memory. Of Doyle leaning against a kitchen wall, sweating and grimy and ill with pain, calling him names, berating him for taking so long
Bodie stilled for a minute as the image faded. Relief. They’d both been relieved, he got that impression quite clearly. Under his hands Doyle shifted again, and Bodie resumed his doctoring, musing on these randomly retrieved images. He touched his fingers lightly over Doyle’s back, in a last attempt to find any splinters he may have missed, leaving bloody smears in the golden skin, reminiscent of a child’s finger painting, but if there were more, they were beyond his skill. He wiped his fingers on the towel and turned his attention to Doyle’s hair, running his fingers through the soft curls, removing more glass shards but his scalp seemed relatively undamaged, cushioned no doubt by his thick untidy mane. Likewise Doyle’s jeans had protected most of his legs, although they were ripped in several places, skin gleaming palely, but unmarked beneath the denim.
Doyle had relaxed, quite spent, but Bodie looked at the Dettol he’d fished from the box and pursued his lips.
“Stay there,’ he told Doyle. “I haven’t finished.”
He wandered into the kitchen and found what he was looking for in a cupboard above the cooker. He opened the full bottle of whisky and poured a generous measure into two glasses. Then he came back to the bedroom and handed one to Doyle. Doyle leaned up on his elbows, eyes suspicious, still narky.
“Scotch,” Bodie said and smiled. “Pure Malt.” He hesitated. “Someone…?”
Doyle’s eyes widened in surprise, “You remember.”
Bodie shook his head, “No. Bits. Like a dream.”
Doyle snorted and took the glass to swallow a healthy mouthful. Bodie put his own on the floor and waited until Doyle had eased himself back down, before pouring the Dettol straight from the bottle on to his companion’s lacerated back. The result was electric. Doyle reared up, roaring and Bodie hurriedly pushed him back down, leaning heavily against the wriggling, squirming body to allow the antiseptic to clean and disinfect the cuts. Sweat broke out across Doyle’s skin and he closed his eyes, teeth biting into his lip, tasting blood. Bodie held on determinedly until the arched body again collapsed before picking up the cloth and blotting the lacerations clean. He rummaged around for plasters and pulled out a full box.
“Some may need stitching,” he warned, but Doyle ignored him, head back down against his arms, breathing heavily and quivering like a highly strung racehorse. The curve of his cheek, which was all that could be seen of his face had gone absolutely ashen and Bodie belatedly reflected that it might not have been a wise thing to do to a man with an empty stomach. He applied sticking plasters to the cuts that were still bleeding until Doyle’s back looked like a game of noughts and crosses.
“Done,” he said and picked up his own scotch, swallowing it in one go. He suddenly felt as bad as Doyle looked.
After a few minutes Doyle took a shuddering breath and pushed himself upright on unsteady arms. Bodie moved away, allowing him to sit up. The chain rattled noisily as Doyle swung his legs around but his balance still wasn’t good and he waited, breathing evenly, willing the giddiness to pass. The weight around his throat felt choking and he brought his hands up to the chain, digging his fingers in, wanting it gone. Bodie watched him quietly. Doyle looked up and gazed steadily at his partner.
“Now what? We going to sit here and let those other bombs go off? Let all those people die?”
Bodie still had a faint ringing in his ears, but he heard the challenge, croaky voice notwithstanding. He didn’t answer, his eyes steady on the dishevelled man opposite him, amazed again at how easily he could read the expressions that fitted across his face. Doyle was derisive, lip curling in a sneer.
“You going to go back? To the Spaniard? Finish the job.”
Bodie stood up abruptly and went automatically to the window, feeling hounded. The bump on his head started up again, throbbing insistently.
“Help kill children, sick people. That’s real brave, Bodie.”
Bodie swung around incensed. “If I start a job I finish it, it’s how I work.”
Doyle stood up too and Bodie was unsurprised to see fury there, a fury that more than matched his own. “You already have a job, and that job is to protect children and sick people. You haven’t finished that job. Which makes this one null and void.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“Doesn’t make it not true.” Doyle tugged at the chain again and his face was still white. He moved to the bedside phone, forgetting that the one in the living room was on the floor, off the hook. “Well you can commit murder if you think that’s all you’re good for, Bodie, but I’m not. I’m calling in, then I’m going to stop it.”
“No.”
Doyle stared at him, warned by that flat denial, but rebelliously standing his ground. “I’m letting them know about the Spaniard.”
Bodie shook his head and reached past Doyle for the phone, but Doyle knocked his hand away. Bodie, surprised at Doyle’s speed, reached with the other and Doyle blocked that one too. Bodie began to see why Connolly had said CI5 were dangerous. Hadn’t this man proved it time and time again? Was still proving it, in spite of his condition and his deceptive boyish looks. Yet his face was hard now, hard and angry and determined as he cradled the phone and lifted the receiver.
“You’re not phoning anyone,” Bodie told him, just as determinedly and reached again for the instrument.
“Then why the hell did you come back for me?” Doyle yelled, temper finally exploding, voice cracking. “Why not leave me there, if you didn’t want to stop this?”
Bodie paused warily. Doyle mad was a Doyle that needed handling very carefully. Bodie didn’t know who had told him that but looking at him now, he had no hesitation accepting it. And the stubborn bugger was still going to ring in no matter what Bodie said or did. And the police would get involved and Bodie would be hauled off to the nick - his reward for preventing Doyle being blown into a million pieces. A jail cell and a see you later. Moralistic bastard.
“Never took you for a coward, Bodie.” Doyle was livid and disgust was ripe in his voice. “Or a murderer. But that’s what you were, eh?”
The accusation hit and it hit hard and Bodie flinched at the vehemence of it. Glaring at Doyle, his slow fuse well and truly ignited, he leaned down and deliberately ripped the flex from the wall. Doyle’s head shot up like an avenging angel and for the second time Bodie underestimated his speed, the fist catching him on the side of the head. He went down on one knee, almost not dodging the accompanying kick in time, but Doyle followed through instantly with another blow and he only just avoided that one as well. Christ! Bloody scrappy dirty fighter.
It was as if Doyle could second-guess him, outmanoeuvring Bodie’s attempts to regain his feet. And yet, trying to defend himself, he knew - knew Doyle was pulling his punches and for some reason, that made him even angrier. That this man could know him so well.
But Bodie had one unfair advantage and in his rage didn’t stop to consider the consequences of it. He lunged forward, snagged a hold of the trailing chain and pulled sharply. With a painful cry, Doyle immediately dropped to his knees, hands scrabbling up to his neck gasping for air. Bodie twisted the chain cruelly, hauled Doyle backwards against his chest and held on, judging the timing carefully, uncomfortably reminded of Felipe doing the exact same thing and resolutely pushing it from his mind. He wasn’t Felipe. He wasn’t the Spaniard either, and he wasn’t a murdering coward. The wiry body in his arms fought for air, desperately clawing at the chain, but he held on, sensitive to the minute changes, the weakening attempts to struggle, to breathe.
And when Doyle finally slumped, bonelessly against him, Bodie very gently laid him down on the carpet, turned him on his side, checked his airways, and made sure he was breathing OK. He got to his feet and hesitated, the persistent ill feeling and worry nagging at him, the urge to protect Doyle flaring up all over again. Well at least this way he’d be out of harm’s way, and Bodie could do what needed to be done without these unwanted emotions surfacing at inconvenient moments, which they would if Doyle was right and they really were partners. Partners? Him a CI5 agent? Jesus, it was too much, he couldn’t get his head around it, regardless of the returning bits of memory suggesting otherwise. He glanced down again confused, weary.
Doyle lay still, relaxed, wide eyes closed, full lips slightly parted, bare shoulders golden in the afternoon light from the window. Bruised and battered. Now that his temper was abating he had a thought that no way would Doyle have gone down so easily if he hadn’t already been half concussed from the blast, and weak from lack of food. Bodie felt unaccountably guilty, another damn emotion that seemed connected to this CI5 agent and it was strong enough to heat his cooling temper back up to boiling.
Swearing irritably, he pulled a blanket from the bed and tossed it over the unconscious man against the chill of the room, before glancing at his watch, which miraculously had escaped damage from the bomb. If he were going to do what he had to do and meet the Spaniard on time, he’d have to move it. He didn’t give a thought to the locks or alarms as he left by the front door.
**************
Chapter 15
Murphy kept one hand on the wheel while the other reached for the flashing RT. “6.2.”
“Alpha.” Cowley’s voice, curt and to the point. “3.7’s alarms have been switched off. Get yourself over there on the double and check it out.”
Murphy frowned. “Have you called?”
“The phone’s permanently engaged, it could be off the hook. Be alert for trouble. I’ll contact you as soon as I get a positive ID on who was with Doyle at the bomb blast. Keep me informed, 6.2. Out.”
Murphy obediently turned the wheel and set a course for the smart neighbourhood where Bodie’s flat was, mind racing. If the alarm had been deactivated, it would have to have been Bodie, he was the only one supposed to know the codes, although he suspected Doyle knew them as well. Murphy shook his head and hoped to God Bodie hadn’t just been off convalescing with a willing bird, unaware that his partner was up to his neck in trouble, but then Murphy dismissed that almost immediately. Bodie had a sixth sense where Doyle was concerned and their unnatural ability to second-guess each other was both mystifying and fascinating to the rest of the squad. Cowley had thought they were together but the conflicting reports they’d received from the witnesses to the bombing had now made that unlikely. Murphy wasn’t at all happy to be the one to impart the news about Doyle to his partner, although Bodie couldn’t… shouldn’t be surprised. Not when Doyle’s inquisitive nature made this sort of thing a regular occurrence.
He turned off Charing Cross Road and hit traffic, slowing down frustratingly. The RT beeped again. “6.2”
“Alpha. Communications received a brief phone call from 4.5 warning us of two more bombs. St Luke’s and Christian Brothers’ school. We’ve alerted the bomb squad and the Met.”
“Is 4.5 OK then?” Relief flooded him like a tide, not least because he could now impart good news to Bodie instead of bad.
“The phone call was cut off abruptly,” Cowley said crisply. “Not long enough for a trace.”
Murphy didn’t answer for a minute, gritting his teeth. “So we still don’t know where he is or what’s happened to him.”
“No,” Cowley paused as well.
“Should I tell 3.7?”
Another pause and Murphy waited, wondering what his boss was thinking.
“I suspect 3.7 may already know. Alpha out.”
It was a good thirty minutes before Murphy was able to break out of the traffic congestion and take a number of shortcuts, finally arriving outside Bodie’s stylish flat. He waited in the car cautiously, looking around, but like before, the flat appeared empty, deserted, the cul de sac quiet during the working week. Murphy opened the car door and unfolded his length from the driver’s seat, still looking around conscientiously. Nothing moved except for a black cat, lazily sunning itself on the low brick wall lining the footpath. Murphy surreptitiously removed his Browning, pulled the slide and released it, then flicked the safety catch off. Warily he approached number seven.
The door stood ajar. That fact alone had Murphy on high alert, standing stock still listening, but it was silent, the only noise some squabbling sparrows in the hedge blocking the footpath. He moved to the door quickly, aligning himself up alongside the jamb, peering guardedly into the room. Nothing. Uneasy, Murphy followed the drill. Arms extended before him, gun in both hands, he crept stealthily into the flat, checking each room thoroughly. He stopped in the living room, the reddish smear on the wall and the bloodied torn shirt on the floor commanding his attention immediately. He eyed both edgily, adrenaline kicking in. In the bedroom he came to an abrupt stop. The telephone lay on the floor, the receiver off its cradle, the ripped flex trailing behind. Murphy moved silently around the edge of the bed towards it and a body came into view. Covered with a blanket and quite still. From his angle, Murphy could only see a mop of long curly hair and it was a dead giveaway.
“Doyle!” He was on his knees on the carpet in an instant, pulling away the blanket, the red smear on the wall and the bloodied shirt firing his imagination into expecting a bullet riddled corpse. His imagination was mercifully way off the mark. Doyle was half naked, lying on his side; eyes sealed shut, mouth slightly open. Murphy took him in with one glance. Rope burns on the thin wrists, the padlocked chain around his neck, the bruising and scratching accompanying it, but his skin was a good colour and his chest rose and fell regularly.
Murphy was almost faint with relief. “Christ,” he muttered and put his hand on the bare shoulder, giving him a slight shake. “Doyle! Ray, can you hear me?”
The response wasn’t what he’d hoped for. A slight grimace, but Doyle didn’t wake. Murphy fumbled his RT from his pocket one handed. “Ray! Wake up, blimey, come on mate, snap out of it.”
A low moan and a slight fluttering of thick eyelashes rewarded his persistence. Murphy touched the chain lightly, seeing how tight it was. Bloody hell, the witnesses were right, who had done this to him? Doyle flopped groggily onto his back, immediately issued a sharp yelp, and hurriedly rolled back again, forcing sleepy greenish blue eyes open.
“Can you hear me, Ray?” Murphy waved his hand in front of Doyle’s eyes but there was barely any awareness there at all. “I’m calling an ambulance. Stay there, mate.”
He’d gained his feet before he heard it. Low, rasping, painful but the voice stopped him with a single word. “No.”
******************
Bodie drove, smooth, calm and controlled, half his awareness watching for police, knowing that by now the car most certainly would have been reported as stolen. Then again, he thought with a brief snort, the police had a lot more to do right at this moment than chase down a stolen vehicle. The Spaniard had seen to that. His mood was still sour, Ray Doyle’s words still shouting through his head. Murderer and coward. Bodie thinned his lips. He was neither and he’d prove it. He didn’t pause to wonder why he should, why Doyle’s opinion seemed to mean so much to him, but he wryly acknowledged that it did.
He guided the car back towards the West End, towards the school, his fury at Doyle slicked ever so finely with worry. Doyle had been out for the count when he’d left, but he’d been breathing. Bodie was sure of his skill, knew he hadn’t seriously damaged the man, but what if his throat swelled around that chain that was so tight? He rubbed at his stubble wearily, deciding that if Doyle really were his partner, he’d have killed him a long time ago, infuriating little sod. The traffic began to build up and Bodie frowned, seeing police cars, all apparently heading in the same direction. He slowed down, redirected by a uniformed policeman from the street where the school was located. Bodie didn’t take a chance, not in a stolen car. Instead he found a car park down a side street and jogged easily back towards the school. It was crawling with police, army personnel and he recognised a bomb disposal unit. He grinned despite himself. Seems Doyle’s call had got through.
He trotted back to the car, glancing at his watch. Much as he assumed the hospital would be the same, he decided to check anyway. Plenty of time to get back to the Spaniard, finish the job, get his pay and get the hell out. And no deaths on his conscience either. But even as thought it, the decision weighed heavily. Wrong.
*****************
His throat felt like sandpaper. That was his first thought as urgency prodded him into waking. That and the fact that the sheet had somehow tangled around his neck, choking him. Doyle came awake and very nearly wished he hadn’t. His back was on fire and the constriction around his throat tightened. The voice that had woken him penetrated and he found the name to go with it. Murphy. He frowned. What was Murphy doing here and where was Bodie? He rolled onto his back, and the resultant razor blades slicing across bare skin had him twisting hastily back again. Recent events clamoured for attention, jostling for priority in his groggy state, but first and foremost was Bodie.
He’d made a fatal error with his partner. He could see that now. Lulled into his usual interaction with his oppo he had let his guard down and paid for it dearly. Venting his frustration had damned near got him strangled and now Bodie had gone. Leaving him here, snug on the floor. Doyle twitched, thoughts flickering helter skelter fashion through his brain. Snug and warm on the carpet under a blanket, safely out of harm’s way. Now that really sounded like a murdering mercenary, didn’t it? His heart lightened immediately. Bodie might not remember him, but it was plain his subconscious wouldn’t allow him to really harm him. And he hadn’t, Bodie was far too much a professional to misjudge a stunt like that. In fact most of his aches and pains could be put squarely down to the Spaniard and his brother, and this bloody chain, not Bodie.
He felt movement again and forced his eyes open. He saw Murphy, gun out, concerned eyes staring at him. And heard one word. Ambulance.
No!
Murphy spun around and saw Doyle struggling to sit up. He moved back to assist him, not liking the purple blue bruising around Doyle’s neck, nor the one spreading across his rib cage. “Come on, Doyle, you need a hospital.”
“What I need, Murph,” Doyle rasped with exaggerated patience. “Is to get this bloody chain off my neck before it kills me. Where are your lock picks?”
Murphy gazed at him silently for a minute, before delving his hand into a pocket, re-emerging with a set of steel skeleton keys. He placed his gun and the RT on the carpet and got to work, watching his teammate anxiously, not entirely sure that Doyle was properly in the here and now. Doyle leaned, arched peculiarly away from the wall, his expressive eyes closed and smudged with shadows. His tongue came out frequently to touch at a swollen bruised part of his full lower lip and Murphy squinted, distracted from his task. It looked suspiciously like teeth marks, like someone or something had bitten him there.
“What the hell happened?” he burst out. “Who chained you, Ray? And where’s Bodie?”
Those easy to read eyes slowly opened, focussed on his face and Murphy clicked his tongue, muttering, “Bodie’s going to have a fit when he sees you.”
To his utter amazement, Doyle laughed. But it held none of Doyle’s usual cheer, instead sounding bitter and ironic.
“Ray, what’s going on?” There was a faint click and the padlock sprang open and Murphy gently eased the chain from Doyle’s neck. Doyle gave a great sigh of relief and brought his hands up, massaging and rubbing at his throat, wincing. He got his feet under him and tried to stand and Murphy reached out to grab him hurriedly. Doyle came upright slowly, allowing Murphy’s support, sweating and dizzy.
“Christ, Ray, you need a hospital.”
“No,” Doyle said again, determinedly. He knew what he had to do. He had to stop Bodie, and it wouldn’t be accomplished by being in a hospital. Besides he wasn’t that badly hurt, not really. But he was starving. “I just need some food, Murph, I haven’t eaten for two days.”
Murphy bent down to scoop up his semi auto while Doyle turned for the door and only then did Murphy see his back, the inexpertly repaired damage; correlating it to the bloodied ruined shirt on the floor, the rope burns on his wrists and his mind graphically supplied possible causes, complete with unwanted images in vivid technicolour. His own temper flared. He caught up with Doyle and stopped him, both hands on Doyle’s bare shoulders. “What happened to your back?”
Doyle just looked at him hazily; face sheened and pale, eyes enormous and Murphy diagnosed light-headedness immediately. He quickly turned Doyle around and guided him gently from the bedroom and into a chair at the kitchen table. A two-day-old newspaper lay on the table, open at the Page Three spread, and Murphy pushed it aside. “I’ll fix you something to eat, you just stay there and tell me what happened.”
He went to the sink first, filling a glass with water and dumping it in front of Doyle with a couple of aspirin from the cupboard above the sink. Then he got bread and eggs and put the kettle on, moving efficiently around the small kitchen, knowing where Bodie kept everything from their occasional poker nights. He supposed he was lucky Bodie had any food in at all, then remembered that he’d had a bird stay for a few days, some Italian piece - she would have been likely to stock him up.
“Well?” Murphy demanded, cracking eggs into a frying pan, impatient with Doyle’s silence. “What happened?”
He half turned to glare over his shoulder but saw that Doyle’s attention had shifted to the Page Three spread on the crumpled newspaper. Murphy paused surprised, then realised that it wasn’t the petite blonde in the picture that Doyle was staring at so intently, rather it was the small article underneath it. Focussed, absorbed, eyes sharp with purpose, Murphy could almost hear his colleague’s thoughts clicking over at their usual swift pace. The silence stretched and knowing Doyle as he did, he resigned himself to the improbability of getting a straight answer. Not if it concerned the missing Bodie anyway.
“What’s the time?” Doyle asked abruptly, his voice a little stronger, although his hands kept straying to his neck, as though he could feel the collar still there, still locked around his throat.
Murphy glanced at his watch, “Nearly three.”
He placed a plate of toast and eggs before Doyle and turned to the kettle. Doyle picked up the supplied cutlery and started to eat, as if he was a man starved. Murphy made him hot sweet tea and a coffee for himself and sat down opposite, watching him with open concern. “Where is Bodie?”
Doyle looked warily up at him, chewing slowly, mindful of his lip. He put down his knife and reached for the cup, sipping slowly and wincing as the food, helped by the liquid slid down his throat. “Undercover,” he finally answered. “And he’s going to need some help.”
****************
Half empty coffee cups sat on the desk, alongside an ashtray filled with butts and a policewoman stood in the corner, trying valiantly not to yawn. George Cowley watched his witnesses slowly turn the pages of the books, the countless black and white mug shots flicking past under their restlessly moving eyes. He rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, disgruntled as page after page of IRA sympathisers were glanced at, and immediately discarded. Behind him the door opened and Lucas stuck his face in. Cowley turned to look over his shoulder, saw Lucas tilt his head fractionally, and silently followed his young agent through the door to the small office. Lucas held out an envelope and Cowley opened it to reveal two large black and white photos. He smiled briefly remembering the first time he had seen them, how different he had thought they were. Like chalk and cheese and it wryly crossed his mind that, that hadn’t changed noticeably. He pushed the photos back in the envelope. “Has 6.2 checked in yet?”
“Not as yet, sir.”
Cowley glanced at his watch. “Give him another ten minutes and then try to rouse him.”
“One more thing, sir.” Lucas stopped him, as Cowley moved to return to the small room and its volumes of photos. “An anonymous call came in to the Met. Gave the precise locations of the bombs in the hospital and the school. The bomb squad are checking it out.”
“Anonymous?” Cowley looked up. “Is it on tape?”
“Yes sir, they’ve hooked it up to the phone. Male, young, English - not long enough for a trace. I think you should have a listen.”
Curious Cowley moved to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Cowley. Yes, I’m listening, start it now.”
The words were succinct, abrupt and quick. But Cowley couldn’t have been more surprised had it been the Prime Minister on the other end of the line. “Play it again,” he commanded sharply. His eyes narrowed as he listened again. He looked up at Lucas and Lucas nodded his fair head solemnly. “I thought the same thing. Only why would Bodie be giving an anonymous tip off to bomb locations?”
Vivian McAllister, the librarian and her elderly companion, Ted Burrows, froze the minute the two photos were placed over the top of the pages they were about to turn.
“That’s them,” Vivian said in relief. “Both of them.”
“Aye that’s the young uns all right,” Burrows confirmed, leaning back, glad to be finally finished. “This one had the chain around his neck.” And he stabbed a blunt forefinger onto Doyle’s curly headed image.
Lucas, standing at his chief’s shoulder, raised his brows in puzzlement. Cowley looked down at the two photos, one impishly appealing, the other dark and brooding, annoyed that for every question answered, a dozen more popped up. What the devil were those two up to? So help him, he’d have them on desk duties for a year.
*************
Bodie parked the Cortina a significant distance away from the river and was waiting by the chained fence when the Spaniard pulled up. Carlos alighted from the car and looked him up and down. “Where is Connolly?”
Bodie jerked his head up to the empty warehouse. “Up there, waiting.”
The Spaniard paused, eyes penetrating, and Bodie was suddenly aware of his dishevelled state, Doyle’s blood on his sleeve, the drying cut on his temple.
“Where have you been?” the Spaniard asked icily.
Bodie glared at him. “Got bored, angsty, needed a woman didn’t I?”
“You have been in a fight?”
“Yeah, well her boyfriend objected.” Bodie shrugged as if it was of little importance.
“I told you to stay here.”
“So you did.” Their eyes met and locked, dark blue against black.
The Spaniard smiled, but there was no warmth in that smile. “You have not changed at all, amigo. Come, it is time you earned your money.”
Bodie followed him to the car and got in the passenger seat. Connolly appeared, hands shoved in his pockets. He gave Bodie a quick glance as he got into the rear seat and then resolutely looked out of the window as the Spaniard started the engine and rolled smoothly away from the old warehouse on the river Thames.
The western sun was dropping towards the horizon and the sounds of sirens echoed through the city of London.
*********************
“Christ, Doyle, the Cow will have you if you don’t check in,” Murphy stated, still unhappy with Doyle’s appearance. He’d tried to talk him into going to hospital but Doyle had ignored him. Trying to find out who had tied him down and savaged his back produced the same result. Asking where they’d both been for the last forty-eight hours had those full lips tight as a clam. Murphy sighed as he gazed at the unpredictable agent next to him.
Wearing one of Bodie’s shirts that was slightly too big for him, fidgeting and shifting his shoulders constantly at the irritation against his back, Doyle explained yet again. “We’ll blow it for him.” He exhaled irritably, “Cowley’s got enough to worry about with those bombs.”
He didn’t look at Murphy, didn’t like lying to the other operative but nor did he want to land Bodie in it either. Not until he had at least another go at his memory. Knowing Bodie, he was quite sure that his partner was stubbornly disregarding the random bits of memory he was retrieving and Doyle was equally convinced that if he kept prodding, it would come back fully. But if Bodie went through with this robbery, it could well end his future in CI5 and Doyle was determined to prevent that at all costs. “You can call for back up once we make sure they arrive, otherwise we’ll have nothing on them and Bodie’s cover will be blown.” He turned finally to look at the taller agent, bestowing one of his angelic smiles. “Trust me.”
“Not bleeding likely,” Murphy muttered, but dutifully crouched in the shadows, watching, waiting. He had his RT ready to call in.
The gallery was due to close in fifteen minutes and night was descending. Lights remained on though and Doyle was intelligent enough to know that an armoured van masquerading as a legitimate delivery would only be plausible if it arrived while staff were still in attendance. Which now had the added complication of innocent workers, not to mention the security guards employed to guard the valuable borrowed pieces. He worried at his bitten lip, his decision not to involve HQ now seeming unwise, but before he could change his mind the noise of a rumbling engine filtered down from the main road and presently headlights appeared, preceding an armoured van. He tensed up, felt Murphy do the same. They watched as it slowed up outside the gallery and Doyle saw the unmistakable figure of Turnbull in the driver’s seat lift the microphone of the two-way radio and speak into it.
“Now you can call in,” he told Murphy, straightening abruptly and very relieved that he had the right gallery after all, courtesy of the Page Three girl Bodie had been eyeing while eating his breakfast two days ago. Turnbull seemed alone, and Doyle had no idea how the Spaniard was going to pull this off, but he had to do something to prevent it, to get Bodie back.
“What are you going to do?” Murphy asked, straightening also.
“I’m going to absorb a bit of culture,” Doyle said cryptically. Lifting the spare 9mm from Murphy’s car, he jerked the slide, sending a bullet into the chamber. Catching sight of Murphy’s unhappy face he tilted his head, smiling as devilishly as Bodie ever could. “You take the driver. He’s in on this. I’m going in to team up with Bodie. When Cowley gets here seal off the area.”
Murphy gave him a baleful look but obediently trotted off to follow the security van before the steel grill closed, shutting him out. Doyle moved quickly over to the doors, carefully looking around, but there was still no sign of Bodie or the Spaniard. There were no parking spots either, so it was likely they were waiting out of sight somewhere, waiting for the agreed time to make their move. He was determined to be inside when that happened.
The girl at the information counter glanced up at him and did a double take at his scruffy unshaven appearance. “We are closing in fifteen minutes, sir.”
“Then I have fifteen minutes, don’t I?” Doyle stated cheerfully, automatically switching on the charm. He glanced swiftly around and saw familiar long black hair at the far end of the gallery. Lola.
Before the receptionist could protest further, he turned and trotted up the stairs to the second level, made a beeline for the gents and slipped quickly inside.
***************
Bodie hadn’t counted on staff still being on the premises. He held the assault rifle at the ready, mouth set and disapproving while Garcia tied the hands and ankles of the three women and four men who had been finishing up work when they’d arrived. The Spaniard, perhaps wisely, had banished his brother from the room before setting Garcia to the task.
It had been ridiculously easy to take over the gallery. The Spaniard had merely sent Lola and Garcia in earlier pretending to be tourists and they’d wandered around blissfully, seemingly ignorant of the closing chimes and the calls of the guard at the door that it was time. Once the gallery had emptied, Garcia had pulled his weapon on the girl at the information desk. Timed to perfection, the Spaniard had entered the front doors at virtually the same instant and the guards were quickly disarmed by the efficient skills of his team. A third guard had been more alert and was in the act of reaching for his gun when the Spaniard put a bullet into the floor at his feet. Discretion was the better part of valour and he made no further moves. All planned and meticulously carried out. Bodie had expected no less. Juan Carlos planned for everything. All they needed to do now was to remove the paintings.
The Spaniard returned from the monitor room where he had unlocked the dock doors for Turnbull and gestured with his own gun to Bodie. “You will stand guard here while Felipe and I move the paintings.” He turned and added a few more words to Garcia in Spanish, and the smaller man rose swiftly and went out ahead of Bodie, trotting off to the other end of the gallery to take up position.
Bodie hesitated, glancing at the scared faces of the people sitting down against the wall, hating the Spaniard, Felipe, and this whole damn job with a passion. Doyle’s vehemence rang in his ears again and he silently thanked God for the one small consolation to this whole mess - Doyle didn’t know the name of the gallery and was safely out of the way.
He stepped out to the doorway of the office and gazed down the dimly lit room. Paintings hung on the walls, illuminated cleverly by small hidden globes. Art was art; Bodie for the life of him couldn’t see what all the fuss was about and even less why someone would go to all this trouble to steal them. Unless Doyle had been right and it was politically motivated.
At the far end of the long room, a narrow staircase ascended steeply up to the next level where the valuable pieces were hung, each one appropriately alarmed with a connection straight to the Met. A glass door guarded the top of the stairs, lockable should the need arise although it was not locked tonight. Bodie looked up, the staircase filling him with a disquieting sense of trepidation although he wasn’t sure what was causing it. Felipe wasn’t in sight and the Spaniard came out to move past him. Tense, wondering at the delay, the staircase drew his eye again, a sense of deja vu he couldn’t quite shake.
“Where is Turnbull? He should be here now to help.” Carlos glanced at his watch. “The third bomb will keep our friends in the Met busy, but we still need to move quickly.” He moved off down the gallery towards the lower staircase and Garcia.
Bodie shrugged and stayed where he was. His eyes swept restlessly along the next level and he saw Felipe briefly before the man disappeared again among the open partitions. At least he was safely away from the rope bound men behind him.
Then he caught sight of a furtive movement by the amenities and froze, instantly recognising the dark curls, the lithe, graceful way the man moved. Doyle! Jesus Christ, Doyle, here? How the hell did he get here, how the hell had he known?
Abruptly an alarm sounded and Bodie stiffened, knowing that the Met were busy elsewhere with the bombs and not likely to answer the summons but it still engaged a sense of mild panic, an urgency to escape. But what about Doyle? What was he doing? Did Felipe know Doyle was up there? More importantly did Doyle know Felipe was up there?
Bodie recalled the volatile agent vowing to stop all this no matter what and uttered a soft but heartfelt curse at his insane stubbornness. Instantly tensing up, he eyed the Spaniard and Garcia, both more concerned with Turnbull’s absence than the alarms and Bodie knew instinctively that Doyle was responsible for it. He sighed quietly. Well, it was a rotten set up anyway and he may as well be in for a penny as in for a pound. The Spaniard and Garcia disappeared down through the door that led to the loading dock and Bodie was about to head off after them when a shot blasted the silence of the gallery. Behind him the staff members jumped, the women issuing small screams but he was no longer there.