Mayland was a snitch. He had been born a snitch. He didn't see it as a fault. He was merely correcting wrongs and taking a moral stand. This, of course, didn't make him popular at school, where he was ganged up on. It did, however, make him a good fighter, and for the last few years of his schooling he was left alone. In fact, he went through the whole education system without any regular friends at all. He then went into the army where he could impose these rights and morals. His tale-telling didn't endear him to his colleagues there either who were bigger, stronger and more heavily armed than his school mates.
"No-one likes an informer," his senior officer had told him on more than one occasion.
But Mayland smiled secretly to himself. Like his headmasters before him, his senior officers may not like his activities, but they knew that Mayland was very useful to them. George Cowley also got to hear about Mayland in a roundabout way. He didn't like sneaks either but was also pragmatic enough to want one in his new, elite little team. He preferred to know who his informers were. It would be unfair to lumber Mayland with a partner, so let him ferret on his own and bring juicy bones back to George Cowley as and when. Mayland picked up gossip from the Mess and when out with the lads. They hadn't cottoned on to him in those early days. There had been some uncomfortable conversations in the months since Mayland joined CI5's select band; conversations along the lines of: 'Well, I didn't tell Cowley.' 'Well someone did.' Several agents put their technical training to good use, but couldn't find any bugs in the Mess room or elsewhere. It had to be a human mole - an informer who was undermining the infinite trust that bound these men together. Doyle and the other pacifists were very much against jumping too hastily to conclusions and kangaroo courts. The finger of suspicion just kept pointing to Mayland though as a magnet can't help pointing north. Doyle persuaded his colleagues to be a little circumspect and to lay a trap. But they didn't realise that Mayland had a lifetime's training in avoiding traps. CI5 would have to be very subtle indeed if they were going to lure him out - or whoever it was who'd been ratting to Cowley. There were a couple of little incidents Brakes and Street, for example, hadn't wanted Cowley to know but, somehow, he did. If they couldn't trust their partner or colleagues with a secret, or to keep quiet when required, then could they still trust them with their lives when out in the field? This was a side of snitching, surprisingly, which Cowley hadn't taken into consideration - the insidious rotting away of trust like a cancer.
Doyle gathered an elite foursome. They'd started in CI5 at the same time and had come through a lot of knocks and bumps together. Bodie was confused at Doyle's choice of men. They were the ones who'd string Mayland up given half a chance and half a grain of evidence - Bodie among them. Doyle had learnt double thinks from Cowley; he was still grappling with the triple think though. Let loose, these men could possibly arrange a small accident for Mayland - but what would that prove? Doyle needed these men where he could see them, and where he could - hopefully - influence them. He'd come up with a plan. There was a risk that it could backfire and Doyle could get hurt, but he was prepared to put his money where his mouth was. Like Cowley, he wouldn't ask someone to do something that he wasn't prepared to do himself. Doyle was going to incriminate himself. Word would seep as naturally as possible through the ranks that Doyle had gone beyond the acceptable; that he was beyond the pale. Even Bodie was required to give him a hard time. There would be nothing too obvious, more to do with body language and atmosphere. Let Mayland fill in the gaps. Bodie and the others weren't happy with the plan at all, but when Doyle had challenged them to come up with an alternative there was an awkward silence. Somewhere in their hearts they knew Doyle to be right - a man was innocent until proven guilty.
And so it was that Murphy 'found out' that Doyle was dabbling in the illegal drugs business. Muscling in on the supply chain. It was to keep his informers happy, he said. Give them a bit of 'candy' and they'd be his friends for life. Doyle began to boast about the successes he'd had, how tongues had been loosened once his informers got the promise of a sniff or a snort. Who knows what they'd do for anything harder, and who they'd stitch up next? Murphy warned him off, telling Doyle that he was no better than the real dealers; Bodie reminded him of the reason why he'd left the Force in the first place - that what the coppers were doing was little different to what the villains were doing. Doyle said that the scales had fallen from his eyes and was willing to admit that he'd been wrong. Dealing on the same level as these people was how to get information. Admittedly he couldn't go into court with it, but the informers pointed him in the right direction given the right incentive. Yes, Doyle was very pleased with himself.
Over the course of weeks, Doyle was slowly ostracised by his colleagues. Bodie made quiet noises that he wanted a change of partner or, better, no partner at all. He didn't want to be smeared by association. He had a loathing of drugs, drug dealers and drug users. The game was too dirty. He was surprised and ashamed of his partner and wanted nothing more to do with him. His colleagues sympathised and agreed. Mayland's antenna was on full alert. Doyle felt that now was the time to play his final hand. If this didn't work and he missed his target then Mayland would just have to take his chances with the 'string him up' faction of CI5; and Doyle could be looking at not just the end of his brief career with CI5, but also a very public trial, humiliation and sentence. But, at the end of a gruelling assignment, Bodie dropped off his partner. They were both very tired, but Doyle's mind was still going over possibilities and he asked Bodie to get Mayland to the Happy Whistler the following evening where he'd see something to his advantage. Bodie looked anxiously at his pal. He didn't ask what Doyle had in mind; he just knew that it would be dangerous. He didn't need to remind his partner just what a risk he was taking - not just for himself but for all of them. He wanted to tell his friend that he'd gone far enough now and it was time to let go. But Bodie knew that all these weeks of preparation would be for nothing if he refused Ray this final throw of the dice.
With a heavy heart, Bodie followed instruction. He had all day to mull over his tactics. Just asking the bloke out would be putting his foot in the trap; Mayland wouldn't trust Bodie's sudden friendship. So Bodie made sure Mayland was within earshot when he moaned to Murphy that afternoon in the corridor that he'd just missed nabbing Coniston, a known dealer. They'd set a good trap, he thought, but Coniston had slipped through it. Bodie wondered aloud whether Coniston had been tipped off. There were only a few agents who knew about the op. Bodie let the inference hang in the air.
"I bet I know where to find the creep," Murphy said confidently as they made their way downstairs. Bodie looked at him expectantly. "His girlfriend works in the Happy Whistler. Try there. See you!" Murphy added as he made his way outside.
Bodie stood in the doorway as though weighing up this new information. He nodded to himself as he made his thoughtful way to the car, hoping that Mayland was watching the charade from a window somewhere. Up to you now, sunshine, Bodie thought anxiously to himself as he made his way home.
That evening, not only was Mayland at the Happy Whistler, in disguise, but also Cowley. Somehow - and who could say how - telepathy?! - the Cow had got wind of Doyle's new sideline. He was reluctant to believe that one of his golden boys had gone rogue. He needed proof before he'd believe that. But, a word in his ear suggested that the proof would be laid before him at a certain pub some time that evening. Cowley waited behind a newspaper and a fog of cigarette smoke from his fellow drinkers. He didn't have too long to wait. After about an hour, the unmistakable curly head of one of his agents came into view. Cowley - and Mayland a few yards away talking to a drone - watched as Doyle ordered a pint and settled himself at the bar. He didn't look round, but someone seemed to latch onto him. They ignored each other for a while as they supped their drinks. Then Doyle peeled himself off the bar and sauntered out towards the back of the pub. The lone drinker followed; Cowley followed him; Mayland followed Cowley. In the corridor Cowley was shocked to see Doyle hand a small packet over to the man. Quick as lightening, Cowley grasped Doyle's wrist in a bone-breaking grip. Doyle gasped in pain and the contact melted rapidly into the night via the back fire exit.
"My office - now!" Cowley snarled, picking up the packet his agent had dropped.
The packet was small, the plastic coating shielding a soft white powder of some kind. Cowley whirled round so quickly that he cannoned into Mayland. Mayland made sure that Doyle saw the smirk on his face before he re-entered the bar to order himself a well earned brandy. It had been a very satisfactory evening.
Cowley said nothing in the car on the way over to his office. He was shaking with rage. Doyle, too, said nothing, still nursing his damaged wrist. The brisk trot up the stairs to his office did nothing to lighten Cowley's temper. Doyle meekly followed his boss into his lair and closed the door onto them. Cowley, still with is coat on, stared out of the window, not trusting his voice yet. Doyle was angry with himself that he'd caused Cowley such pain, and angry that Cowley was willing to believe it of him.
"I'll start from the beginning, sir," Doyle said softly, trying to keep his voice even. "A whisky may help."
There was no response from the Cow and Doyle's olive branch went untouched. Doyle took a deep breath. He wasn't invited to sit down and preferred to stand.
"There's a fifth columnist in our ranks, sir. I think you know that and you know who it is. We think we know who it is and I don't hold with kangaroo courts. I persuaded some of the more militant to stay their hand and to get proof before we did anything rash. I set myself up to see what would happen. We needed to know who your source was, sir. But we needed proof. Now we have it. A nark may be of use to you but what it says to us is that you don't trust us; that you need to have someone reporting back on our conversations. Frankly, sir, if you don't trust us then perhaps we're in the wrong job. Without trust we have nothing." Doyle was getting angry.
Cowley heard the tone and the message. He turned slowly back from the window. He fished the sachet from his pocket and tossed it contemptuously on the table.
"What is in this packet?"
"Talcum powder. But perhaps you don't trust that answer either. Shall I take it to the lab now for analysis, or do you want Mayland to go? He seems to be the only one you'll trust."
"Stop bandying that bloody word!" Cowley snarled angrily. "Of course I trust you. I wouldn't have employed you - any of you - unless I could trust you of a job well done and done well. I know what Mayland is. I don't like it; I don't like him. In the beginning there was one of our small number, Doyle, whom I believed to be on the take. I have that name now, and the proof I needed. It was my intention to relieve Mayland of duty - to place him elsewhere - once the job was done. Unfortunately no-one I know will have him and I'm still trying to offload him. I hadn't wanted him to continue his one-man secret army."
"You didn't bloody stop him, though did you?!" Doyle yelled.
"No, laddie, I didn't. And that was my mistake!" Cowley banged his fist on the table, which made Doyle jump. The Cow then took a deep breath and, more calmly, he added, "I can see what his activities are doing to you - setting each one against the other. Mayland's like the drug I've been accusing you of supplying - addictive. But I agree; it's gone too far. I want to keep you but I see that keeping Mayland too is destroying you, and destroying the faith you have in me. I'll take him out, laddie, before the cancer spreads too far."
Doyle stared at him for some time. He didn't know that his boss was capable of apologising, or for lack of judgement. Cowley misinterpreted Doyle's silence.
"What's wrong Doyle - don't you trust me?"
Doyle smiled tentatively. "Yes, sir, I believe I do," he said slowly.
"Then let's drink on it."