LIMEHOUSE BLUES
The clock read 6.00am. The room was dark, very cold and the air was damp and still. Had there been enough light to see, a casual observer would have noted the room was Spartan in its decor. There was no stamp of individuality to be seen. No pictures, books or photos. The furniture was utilitarian to say the least; a table, a sagging armchair and a single bed along one wall. A kitchenette was built across another wall, with a door leading off to a small and dingy bathroom. The whole bedsit reeked of neglect. One the bed lay a body, covered by a thin sheet. Tossing and turning every now and again, it was obvious the owner had had little in the way of rest or relaxation. One wrist was chained to the bedstead, making any further attempt at comfort futile.
A key was inserted into the outer door. Its sound caused the body on the bed to stop moving. The door opened and a smartly dressed man walked in. Although tall and well built, he was running to fat. Large gold rings adorned his stubby fingers, while a chunky ID bracelet encircled a thick, hairy wrist. Despite the early hour, he looked a fresh as a daisy. He was conservatively, but expensively dressed, in a coat of camel coloured cashmere over a well cut dark grey suit. He walked directly to the bed and pulled the thin cover down.
"Mornin' Doyle, you skinny fuck! Sleep well?" The big man stared down at Ray Doyle, smiling, but with humourless eyes. His glance took in the bruising across Doyle's belly, the dried blood on his chest. He rolled Doyle over, causing the agent to yelp with pain. He looked at the marks left by the leather thongs laid across Doyle's back earlier.
"Ooh, bet that hurt," he sniggered, "good!" He checked Doyle's wrist which was cuffed to the bed frame. Delving into a pocket, he produced a key and unlocked the cuffs, then pulled the slight body into a sitting position. Grabbing a handful of curls, he forced Doyle to look up at him.
"Not as pretty as yesterday either," he snorted. Doyle's left eye was almost closed. His lip was split, but the man noted that there was a fierce, feral gleam in his captive's expression. Doyle slowly and painfully elbowed himself up and stared at the big man.
"When I get out of this, I'm gonna come after you Bailey, just so you know," he whispered.
The man named Bailey threw his head back and laughed out loud. Then his demeanour changed abruptly.
"DC Doyle, scourge of Limehouse. You arrogant prick. Thought you could take on the Baileys did you? Well mate, you're well and truly screwed now. My ol' man died in prison 'cos of you. My uncle Jim is still in Parkhurst. He's never comin' out. My brother Rich, is in a secure hospital now. They said he was a psycho! All because you wanted to clean up the streets! What're a few dead druggies to you Doyle, eh? What fired you up so much that you came after us? How the fuck did you persuade the Drug Squad to take you seriously? You were a uniform. No experience of dealing with the big boys."
Bailey stopped, seemingly exhausted by this outburst. He stared malevolently at Doyle. Whether or not he expected a reply cut no ice with the beaten man. He stared at Bailey through a pain filled fog.
"Anyone low enough to deal drugs to school kids deserves whatever they get." Doyle hissed through clenched teeth. "It was my pleasure to bust you lot. Make a dent in your profits did it, your 'famerley' business bein' stopped?" Here Doyle exaggerated Bailey's East London accent. "
With a roar, Bailey wrenched Doyle into a standing position, before raining blows all over his body. As Doyle began to slide to the ground, Bailey began to systematically kick him. All Doyle could do was make himself as small a target as possible in order to save his already beaten body from further damage. As he slithered to the ground, all he could think about was how badly wrong this assignment had gone, and whether he would actually survive this time.
The morning had started very badly for Bodie. Roused from a warm woman by the incessant ringing of the phone, it had taken only a few terse sentences from Cowley to wake him up and get him out of bed. Shaking Julia, or Claudia, or someone ending in 'ia' awake, he gallantly told them how good it had been for him, cited an urgent problem at work, and promised to ring them again, before shooing Julia/Claudia out the door.
Fifteen minutes later he was striding through the doors of CI5's headquarters, grim faced, and in no mood to swap pleasantries with anyone. He pushed open the door to George Cowley's office as Betty, Cowley's secretary finished pouring two cups of coffee. She handed the handsome, glowering agent a mug as he walked past. She already knew what had happened, and how Bodie would react. It wasn't going to be a good day.
"Bodie. Sit down." George Cowley spoke brusquely to his employee. "Give me a full picture of what happened yesterday."
Bodie took a swig of coffee and put the mug down.
"We were following up on the report that a club in Dalston was being used as a holding place for large quantities of heroin. The stuff comes in on the boats, usually from Russia via Amsterdam. It's held for a day or two, before being passed on to be cut and distributed throughout the east London area. We knew that it was very low grade stuff. There were rumours that it had caused more deaths than expected because it's such poor quality. The local plods are out of their depth. There are huge quantities coming through, and they didn't have the manpower or resources to cope. We put a small team together, and have been spending time in the club on a watching brief. As you know, we'd got some names and we were waiting for news of the next drop."
Bodie pushed his hand through his dark hair. He took another swig of his coffee and continued his report.
"Me an' Doyle went down last night, with Roberts and Jackson. Played it straight; just four blokes out for a bit of fun. Everything was ok. Roberts was playing the small time buyer. Y'know, trying to find out where he could get hold of some stuff for a 'party'. The barman had seen us in there a few times and pointed out this bloke who is the main dealer in the club. He and Roberts talked about setting up a buy. Roberts was told to wait in the club, as our man had to wait for some bloke first. We sat around waiting. About eleven Ray took himself off to get another round in. Roberts then noticed Bob, our dealer go across to a punter who'd just come in. He was a big bloke, flashy jewellery, that sort of thing. There was a conversation, but before we could get any further, the big guy saw Ray. He went berserk! Grabbed Doyle by the scruff of the neck and backhanded him around 'is head!"
Bodie stopped and closed his eyes. The sight of Doyle being pummelled by the large man flooded his memory. The sickening noise when Doyle's head hit the bar, sounded as loud in his head now as it had done last night. Bodie couldn't believe the ferocity of the unprovoked attack on his best friend.
Cowley watched silently as the young agent involuntarily balled his fists in anger as he remembered the details of the fight.
Quietly Cowley called his agent back to the present.
"Carry on please Bodie. Everything you can remember. Everything."
"He kept screaming about Limehouse . . . fucking coppers . . . his family. Ray tried to defend himself, but he was completely outclassed. This bloke is big, sir. Taller than me and twice as wide. And so mad! Anyway, he had a couple of lads with 'im. They made sure no one intervened! All the while this guy was smacking Doyle around. We bundled over, and he backed off . . . let go of Doyle. Then the barman pointed out Roberts. I grabbed Doyle and we shot out the back entrance, expecting them to follow us. We could have dealt with it safely there; no one else around to get hurt. They never came out. Doyle was OK – knocked around, but he was mobile and lucid. We got back to the cars. Agreed to meet later today to pool our knowledge about what had happened. See what we needed to do to move things forward. Roberts and Jackson went off in one direction, an' we went in the other. Doyle didn't say much. Seemed OK, wouldn't go to Casualty! Said he'd feel better after a night's sleep. I dropped him off at his place, went home and finished up my notes. Went to bed. Slept like a baby until you rang and demanded I get myself here as soon as possible!"
While not strictly true Bodie had no intention of detailing his love life to his boss. He looked long and hard at Cowley, before asking.
"Did something else happen to Doyle?"
Cowley looked on with concern, as Bodie's temper began to bubble up.
"Is that why you wouldn't talk over the phone? 'Just get here' you said!"
Cowley sighed heavily.
"Doyle was taken from his flat shortly after you dropped him off. His neighbour was coming home and saw Doyle being bundled into a van. He was fighting every step of the way. Luckily, the neighbour got a partial on the registration number, and phoned the police. They have a protocol to follow if any member of the security community is kidnapped. Trouble is the neighbour didn't know Doyle's name. Therefore it took the locals several hours to find out he was one of ours!"
He banged the desk, annoyed by the delay.
"That means whoever took Doyle has kept him for at least 12 hours. His flat showed signs of a struggle, but it appears that he was the prime target. His wallet is still there. His gun and ID were in the safe, which hadn't been opened. His R/T was by his bed. We have no idea who took him or indeed, where he is."
Cowley looked hard at Bodie, willing the man to provide further information.
"Think man! Are you sure you weren't followed?"
Bodie shook his head, a disbelieving look crossing his face.
"Didn't check sir," he mumbled. "No reason to think we were. They never followed us out the back; never saw where we'd left the cars." His handsome face looked haunted. "I suppose they could've done"
"Well someone knew where to find him." Cowley stared into the distance. "Of course, it may be an unrelated incident, but it seems to me too much of a coincidence . . . and I don't believe in coincidences. Is there anything else you can remember Bodie? Anything that seemed odd?"
Bodie swallowed hard. He was wrestling with so many emotions and concerns. Had they really missed a tail? His mind was approaching overdrive, trying to assimilate facts and deconstruct events in order to scrutinise them again.
He went over the previous night's events quickly, watching pictures in his mind. He saw the big man's face contort when he caught sight of Doyle . . . saw the gold rings flashing as he hit him . . . heard him cry 'DC Doyle, you fuckin' bastard showin' your face in 'ere.' Bodie froze as the realisation hit him.
"Sir – he knew Doyle! Knew him from the past." Bodie slapped the desk. "Thinks he's still a policeman, He called him DC Doyle!"
Cowley sat back in his chair, and closed his eyes. At last, something to work on! He pressed the intercom on his desk and barked a series of instructions for Betty.
"Get me details of all Doyle's drug related convictions in the Limehouse area quick as you can. Call on all staff available. Leave is cancelled. I want everyone in the briefing room in an hour."
Doyle was in agony. He knew from experience he had at least two broken ribs. He was black and blue with bruises, and a well aimed kick in his balls had nearly caused him to throw up. A final punch to his jaw had knocked him out for a few minutes. As he slowly came round he was aware that his arms were pulled up above his head, and his hands tied. He was propped up against the bath, and his hands were looped over the shower unit. Bailey was nowhere to be seen. Tentatively, Doyle tried some movement, to see how far he could change position; it was useless. He was too weak to get up and it just hurt too much to try harder.
He heard movement in the dismal bedsit. Two people, both male, he judged. He groaned inwardly. He had a fairly good idea of who it was, and what they were there to do. Sure enough, the door to the dirty bathroom opened and Bailey's two henchmen appeared.
Without a word one of them hoisted Doyle to his feet, paying no attention to the cry of pain that escaped him. He turned Doyle around so his face was against the tiles. With a sickening certainty, Doyle knew they were going to whip him again. Even as the thought took hold, the first crack of the thongs made contact with his skin. Doyle clenched his teeth together, determined not to cry out. In doing so, he bit through his own lip. Some of the warm salty blood slicked over his lips and into his mouth before starting to run down his chin. Gently he ran his tongue over his teeth, tasting his own fluid. Dimly he registered that the beating had stopped. He heard his two torturers speaking in low voices.
"'E can't take much more of this. Gawd knows what he did to Bill, but I'm damned if I'm gonna beat 'im to death just 'cos Bill's got a gripe with 'im. I'm not goin' down for killin' someone"
The other man answered quietly.
"He was the copper responsible for putting the Drug Squad on to Bill's family. The evidence he 'anded over put an end to them. Bill's never forgotten. When 'e saw 'im last night I thought he was gonna burst!"
The man paused and shook his head.
"I know what you mean though. Don't wanna get involved in this family feud. Not worth the fall out. Bill can't see it though. Mind you, if it 'adn't been for that old tart Moira, we'd never 'ave found this Doyle bloke. Apparently he," the man jabbed a thumb towards Doyle, "knew her from a few years ago. She used to work his patch. He gave 'er a few quid a coupla weeks ago to tide her over. Told her he'd moved to Chalk Farm, to those trendy new flats opposite the tube station."
The man holding the whip looked quizzically at his colleague.
"You know. All brass name plates and fancy letter boxes in the lobby. Cost a bomb to rent."
He looked pityingly at his mate.
"Christ you don't know much do yer? Anyways, Moira heard Bill shouting his head off in the club, swearing like there was no tomorrow about how he was going to turn London inside out looking for 'im." Another job of a finger towards Doyle. "She couldn't wait to tell Bill she knew. Trying to get back in 'is good books no doubt. Poor ol' cow. She's past her best. Needs help from anyone an' she's known Bill for years. Mind you, she might've kept quiet if she knew what he had in store for this one though! She said 'e's a lovely bloke . . . for a copper!"
Betty came into the room, with several files. She put them down on the desk.
"Thankfully there aren't that many, sir," she began. "Doyle wasn't assigned to the drug squad officially, but did help convict some pushers. However, there is one case seems to look very promising."
She handed a file to her boss.
"Doyle caught some dealers hanging around the local primary schools, and took it upon himself to investigate further. That led him to a family in the area called Bailey. Doyle carried out some low level surveillance in his spare time, and found enough evidence to turn his findings over to the Drug Squad. They mounted a full scale operation which resulted in most of the Bailey family being convicted, and their drug empire falling apart."
Cowley looked at her thoughtfully.
"I remember that. It was the first time Doyle's name was mentioned in connection with CI5. We were looking for exceptional men to bring on board. Anyway," Cowley cleared his throat, "Frank Bailey died in prison some years ago. His brother Jim, who was the mastermind behind the operation, is still in Parkhurst. He's been refused parole several times. There was Frank's son . . . pass me that red file Betty."
Cowley began to rifle through it. He pulled out a sheet of paper.
"Ah, that's it . . .Richie. He's in a secure unit . . . a diagnosed psychopath . . . self harming . . . drug dependent. "
Cowley snatching his glasses from his face and chewed one arm thoughtfully.
"Richie had a brother, who was never convicted. He tried to keep the business going, but too many major players were missing, and he wasn't trusted by the suppliers. He dropped out of sight for some years, but I suspect it is he who is behind the Russian connection."
He shuffled some more papers from the file. Pulling one free, he addressed his waiting secretary.
"Betty, find me an address for William 'Bill' Bailey, now!"
Bodie sat in the office feeling more concerned than ever. As the details of the Bailey family convictions unfolded, Bodie realised just how dangerous a situation Doyle was in. He was angry with himself for possibly missing a tail to Doyle's home, and for leaving him without checking he really was OK. He wondered if he should have taken Doyle to hospital for a check up after the fight. That bang to his head had been hard. However, Doyle always brushed off such injuries, as he did himself. It was something that happened in their line of work.
Yet he was so sure they hadn't been followed. He knew he would have noticed. He looked at his boss, trying to gauge the extent of Cowley's concern. The old man was famous for insisting that no agent was treated any differently, but he also knew in his soul, that he and Doyle enjoyed a special relationship with Cowley.
"You think it was Bailey who took Doyle don't you?"
Cowley looked at the tall man gravely.
"Aye laddie I do. I think he saw Doyle at the club, and it revived all the old grievances. I think he took him purely to exact revenge for what happened to his own family. This has nothing to do with concerns about the drug distribution business. It is personal! "
Cowley, aware he started shouting, stopped abruptly. He sat down heavily in his chair, and reached for his coffee. He gulped a mouthful and grimaced.
"Betty! More coffee please!" He continued, voicing his thoughts to Bodie.
"Without Doyle's perceived interference, the Baileys would have continued to sell their poison across East London and probably beyond. Jim Bailey was a visionary, if you can term a drug peddler as such. He foresaw how the trends for drugs would change, and he was well on the way to operating the biggest distribution network the Met had ever seen. Bill Bailey is as ruthless as Jim, and shares Richie's taste for hurting people. If they have Doyle, I have the gravest fears for his safety. Bailey has no conscience. He blames Doyle for everything that has gone wrong. Mark my words Bodie, we must find Doyle as soon as we can. Hopefully we can accomplish this before Bailey shows his more sadistic side!"
Bodie stood up and faced his boss. His usual 'jack-the-lad' expression was gone, replaced by a look that was almost unholy. The dark blue eyes were hard and unflinching.
"So," he whispered softly, "what are we going to do sir?"
Cowley matched Bodie in the intensity of his reply.
"We are going to find him laddie!"
Later that morning Bill Bailey returned to the house where Doyle was being held. On this occasion, he was accompanied by a young man who arrived in a council van. Together they walked around the property, the young man taking measurements and making copious notes. Several times he pointed towards the house. Bailey shook his head. The young man spoke again. This time Bailey raised his arm as if to hit him. The young man shook a finger in the fat man's face and walked away. He climbed into his van and drove off. Bill Bailey climbed the steps of the dilapidated property and shouted through a broken window. The door was opened by one of his henchmen, and he went inside.
To anyone watching the exchange, it would have appeared to be a disagreement between a homeowner and the local council. Only a man in the house opposite took any interest, making his own notes.
Bailey looked at Doyle lying on the bathroom floor. The tiles were slick with Doyle's blood. The slender man stared up at him defiantly. Although bloodied and bruised, Doyle hadn't given up. Bailey had the uncomfortable feeling that despite his actions towards the former policeman, this situation was not going his way. Lesser men were usually begging for mercy by now, willing to spill whatever secrets he wanted to know, but Doyle remained tight lipped and watchful. It was those huge, green eyes following him constantly that caused Bill Bailey to briefly wonder if he'd met his match after all.
Doyle was the first to speak:
"Hello loser," he croaked, "back to see me are you. Just take a picture . . . save you a journey each time. Noticed you left it to the glimmer twins to do your dirty work."
Bailey looked questioningly at this comment. Doyle laughed mirthlessly.
"Those two Neanderthals you employ. 'Aven't got a glimmer of intelligence between 'em. Muscle boys. Like 'em like that do you?"
Bailey growled, a deep, threatening sound coming from his throat.
"Christ Doyle. You just don't fuckin' know when to give up do yer? None of your mates from Limehouse know where you are, so don't expect the boys in blue to come to your rescue!" Bailey gave the man at his feet a vicious kick.
To his surprise Doyle grinned; his split lip leaking blood from the action.
"No," he agreed, "Lads from Limehouse won't be coming to help, 'cos I don't fuckin' work there anymore! Haven't for years. The lot that will come." he added, his voice soft with menace "will be much, much 'arder."
With a scream Bailey went to punch Doyle. Alerted by something in their boss's tone, the two henchmen pushed their way into the bathroom. One of them grabbed Bailey and hauled him away before he could do any more damage to Doyle. The other one picked up the CI5 man, and deliberately bent his arm back until the veins stood out. Then he coldly jabbed a syringe into Doyle's arm, dragged him out of the bathroom and threw him onto the filthy bed.
Doyle had lost track of time. He couldn't tell if it was day or night. The curtains were kept pulled across the windows, but if the skylight was any indication, they were thick with grime anyway. A jug of water and a sorry looking sandwich were left on the floor next to him. He hadn't been cuffed this time, but the door was locked again. Straining his ears for any sound, he reached the conclusion that he was the only inhabitant of the building. Flinching, he moved slowly and carefully into a sitting position. He drank most of the water, and then felt around the floor for his shirt. The room was icy cold, and he knew he had to keep warm to stop himself going into shock. His broken ribs hurt and his back was raw from the whipping. Gingerly he felt his balls. He vaguely assessed most of the damage to be soft tissue bruising – painful but not life threatening. However, he was concerned about the pain in his chest, and wondered if he was more hurt than he thought.
He knew he should try to find a way out of his predicament, but it all seemed too much effort. In fact, Doyle began to feel distinctly odd. He caught sight of the small track mark in his arm, and wondered what they had injected him with. Whatever it was, it felt good. The seriousness of his situation began to recede. On one level Doyle knew he should be fighting the delicious floating sensation that had begun to calm his body. On the other hand, anything that reduced the pain from the beatings seemed to be a good idea. Slowly Doyle sank back onto the bed, forgetting about the cold, the pain, the discomfort. Just before the darkness engulfed him, he briefly wondered where Bodie was . . .
The squad room was grimly quiet. All available agents had gathered for the emergency briefing. The news of Doyle's kidnap had spread through the ranks. Despite his somewhat prickly temper, and occasional bouts of conscience, Doyle was well liked by his colleagues. He was known for his capacity to care, and had often acted as an unofficial mentor when other agents found the going too tough. The support staff too, had heard of the young agent's abduction. Doyle always had a ready smile and a friendly word for them as well. Several of them were upset at the news; even Betty had had a private word with Cowley, such was her concern. She'd left his office quiet and troubled.
Bodie sat alone at the back of the room. His colleagues, noting his dark expression, and barely veiled aggression waved hesitantly or just nodded towards him. They all knew when he was in this mood he was best left alone, just as they knew that should any harm come to Doyle, Bodie wouldn't rest until he'd found the perpetrator; and that made him a very dangerous man.
Sally left the group she was talking with, and sat beside him. They knew each other very well, and had been very close at one time. However, Bodie didn't even acknowledge her. Gently, she touched his arm.
"Will, don't take it personally. There's no blame here. It's the job."
Bodie shook her hand away.
"He's my partner. He'd been knocked around. I should've taken more notice of the situation," he said simply. "I am to blame."
Any further conversation was forgotten as the head of CI5 walked in.
George Cowley walked in briskly. He scanned the faces of his team, noting their set expressions. There was none of the usual banter and friendly bickering. He took off his glasses and addressed them.
"As you know Ray Doyle was abducted from his flat yesterday evening at about 11.30pm. This was following an incident at the Starlight Club, where he and other agents were involved in gathering intelligence on a drug distribution connection. He was seen being dragged into a blue van. A neighbour was coming home from work, and was able to get most of the registration plate details. That information gave us the name of the van owner as one Thomas Evans. Mr Evans is a known associate of William Bailey. Members of Mr Bailey's family were arrested and convicted several years ago, on the surveillance and evidence of one DC Raymond Doyle. Ladies and Gentlemen, I think you can see where this is going."
He cleared his throat. "Our colleagues at Scotland Yard apprehended Mr Evans early this afternoon, and have persuaded him to pass across certain information that will help us find our man. We have reason to believe that Doyle is being held in a property owned by Mr Bailey. The Met has narrowed it down to one of three houses, awaiting renovation. Roberts, you will take Johnson and Williams and go to 15 Victoria Street in Deptford. Anson, Ellis and Jax, you will go to 27 Woolwich Road Charlton. Bodie, you Meredith and Sally will take 63 The Avenue in Charlton. You will make contact with the police officers currently watching these properties. I am very concerned, ladies and gentlemen that in this case, Doyle's abduction has nothing to do with the drug distribution, and everything to do with William Bailey exacting his idea of revenge. It is this scenario which makes it so very dangerous for Doyle."
The briefing over, the squad room became a hive of activity. Some checked their side arms; Anson was on the phone to the car pool, ordering the vehicles required for all the groups. Others checked maps. All around was the low hum of conversation, plans being formulated and information being shared. Betty hovered near to Cowley, an R/T in her hand. The head of CI5 wanted to know exactly how the searches were going.
An hour later, Bodie and his team reached Charlton. The traffic through London had been slow and with every red light, every traffic jam, Bodie's mood had grown darker. He sat in the back of the car, outwardly still, but in his mind he was going over every shred of information. Logically he knew he wasn't responsible for whatever had happened to Doyle. However, the man was not only his partner, but his dearest friend. Bodie had never applied that sobriquet to anyone before and it shook him to his core as the realisation dawned on him.
With a start he became conscious he was praying to a higher authority that Doyle would be found alive and remain his friend for many more years.
Meredith and Sally, had been teamed with Bodie before, and it didn't surprise them one bit that his imagination was working overtime. They knew how protective he was of his friend and partner, and the effort it was costing him to remain calm and professional in such circumstances.
Parking the car some distance away, the team was met by the officer in charge. Although it looked like another grey November day, Bodie noted the subtle changes around him. The street had been closed off at either end, and the bus route was redirected, apparently because of 'emergency gas works'. A council lorry was parked near to number sixty three, and several workmen were placing barriers and putting up a small tent around a manhole cover. Bodie noted that the 'workmen' were armed, and less bothered with repairing the gas main, than keeping an eye on the run down house that was number sixty three.
The wind was getting up, and the temperature was dropping quickly. The late afternoon light began to fade into a murky twilight. Bodie judged they had little more than half an hour left, before they would need their powerful torches, if they were going to do a full search of the house.
He pulled his jacket closer round him and blew on his hands to keep them warm. Sally was talking to the police officer. She came over to Bodie and Meredith.
"I think we've struck lucky," she began. "Bill Bailey was seen about two o'clock this afternoon, with another man, identified from photos as a building surveyor. They didn't go into the property, although the police photographer said the building guy wanted to. Bailey was insistent he couldn't. They had a huge argument, and the surveyor was overheard saying he couldn't take the matter any further until he'd had a look inside. Bailey told him to fuck off," she added tartly. "He then went into the house, and left about an hour or so later, along with two other men, later identified as Paul Samuels and Jerry Wise. Both have records for GBH."
Bodie needed no further confirmation. He started across the road to the house. He motioned for the police detail to cover the back of the house, and the alley way around the side. Slowly and quietly he made his way to the front door. Signalling for Meredith to cover him, he checked the access to the building, only to find a shiny new padlock and a thick chain holding the door tightly shut.
Muttering an oath, he motioned for his colleague to back away quietly. They approached the fake council van, where Meredith located a large pair of bolt cutters. He handed them to Bodie, before they regrouped where the officer in charge had a message for them.
"Mr Cowley contacted us sir," he said to Meredith. "Both the other properties have been searched and nothing found. Also he says to confirm that following statements from staff at the Starlight Club Mr Bailey and his colleagues have been arrested and are in custody. One of them has provided confirmation that your man is inside this house, although it's not known if he is still alive. "
Bodie made a sound that defied description and ran back across the road. Wielding the bolt cutters, he made short work of the thick chain. The chain and padlock fell to the ground and he ran into the house, with Sally and Meredith hot on his heels.
The smell was awful. All along the hallway was rubbish, decaying food and the occasional dead rodent. Every room on the ground floor was in a similar state, but none held Ray Doyle. The three agents climbed the stairs. The bedroom at the front of the house had no floorboards. The second room was just empty. Sally walked back along the hall, and stopped suddenly. Quietly she called across to Bodie.
"Will, come here. This one's locked from the outside."
Bodie turned and hurried up to her. The door held a new Yale lock. He felt around for a key, praying it was under the disgusting carpet, or on top of the door frame. He was unlucky. In sheer frustration, he punched the wall, grazing his knuckles badly. Meredith caught the large man and held him back from doing any further damage to his hands. Meanwhile, Sally had produced a set of skeleton keys from her pocket and bent down to work the lock. Bodie looked at her, silently applauding her foresight and skills. With a soft click, the lock gave way.
Bodie and Sally slipped into the tiny anteroom. It was now quite dark and the air in the bedsit felt distinctly damp. Quietly they moved across the floor towards the door leading to the main living area. It was difficult to see anything in the gloom. Stopping, Sally held up her hand.
"Can you hear that," she asked. Bodie shook his head.
"There it is again. Sounds like coughing. Or maybe rats!"
Bodie strained his ears. As he became attuned to the silence in the bedsit, he could hear a faint snuffling. Instinctively he knew it was Doyle. He moved to the window and ripped the filthy curtains away from their rails. The weak light that filtered through was just enough for him to see Doyle, lying on the floor. Sally turned and looked over Bodie's shoulder. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh my God," she choked. "Oh my God." She stumbled across the floor and found a light switch. The meagre light from the bulb only highlighted the appalling room, and the slender form of Ray Doyle shivering, his skin, usually lightly tanned, almost blue with the cold. Without further ado she grabbed her R/T and began giving instructions into it.
Bodie knelt next to his friend, taking in the damage inflicted on the skinny frame. Doyle looked up, not really seeing who was touching him, and tried to lash out. Bodie took off his jacket and was about to cover his partner with it when Sally stopped him. She had removed her own coat, a lightweight woollen garment, and handed it to Bodie.
"Take mine. It's warmer and he needs to be kept warm. I've called Cowley and an ambulance is on its way. My Lord Bodie, what's he been through?"
Bodie knelt down to wrap his partner in the warm coat. As he sat Doyle up, he gave a heart wrenching cry. The agents saw the full extent of his injuries. Sally paled and took a step back. She put her hand on Bodie's shoulder, before kneeling down and helping him. Almost immediately, the pale cream coat darkened with blood. Sally noticed the enormous purpling bruises over Doyle's chest.
"He's got a few broken ribs," she whispered. Bodie's arm was round Doyle's shoulders. Sally saw the raw skin on his shoulders and the dried blood around Doyle's face. She caught sight of the lacerations and bruises across his belly and chest. Her breath came raggedly. In all her time at CI5 and previously on Vice, she had rarely come across such viciousness meted out to one person.
Bodie was talking soft and low to his partner. Sally couldn't make out much, but the sound of Bodie's voice seemed to calm Ray noticeably. He looked up at his partner with such a sweet, trusting smile, it was several seconds before Bodie realised his drug hating partner was stoned out of his mind.
Doyle sank back into the soft material. He was still shivering, but the awful blueness had begun to recede. Bodie gently checked the supine body for further damage. He had some limited medical knowledge gained during his days in the Army, and guessed that Doyle may have cracked or broken ribs, although he couldn't be certain. Checking out the man's limbs, he swore quietly when he found the needle mark in Doyle's arm.
"Sal, they've shot 'im up with something. There's a puncture mark in his arm." Sally softly lifted Doyle's eyelid. The normal jade green of his irises was just a thin rim around huge black pupils. Doyle giggled softly, more to himself than anyone else. The two agents sat together on the dirty floor, their colleague cradled between them.
Meredith walked swiftly into the room.
"Ambulance is here, and so is Cowley." He glanced down at Doyle and whistled softly. "Dear God, how is he?"
The paramedic team assessed Doyle in situ. Bodie hovered around like a hen with one chick, until led away by the redoubtable Sally.
"Will, you can't do anything now. He's in the best hands, and they will look after him. C'mon love, let them do their job."
She took Bodie's hand and led the muscular young man out of the room and down the stairs. Together they left the house. The road was a hive of activity. Police cars, an ambulance and several unmarked cars were parked haphazardly along the kerb. Dusk had fallen, and the streetlights illuminated the other houses. Many had their curtains open, with residents openly staring at the proceedings. Policemen were going from door to door, gathering information about the owner of number sixty three.
Cowley, busily barking orders at officers and agents alike, looked across at Bodie and Sally. He stopped in mid flow, and walked briskly across to the couple.
"Well done, both of you," he said. "I understand Doyle is stable, although not out of the woods yet. He'll be taken to Brompton Hospital. We have Mr Bailey safely in custody. Once word had got out that he'd kidnapped a policeman, his cohorts lined up to talk to us. It seems that the criminal fraternity operate a warped code of honour, which Bailey crossed when he went after a 'Limehouse Blue'. That particular station is held in high regard by the local community and many remember Doyle for being scrupulously fair with them. Bodie, you are off duty for the next forty eight hours. I suspect you may have some hospital visiting to do. Sally, your report on my desk by tomorrow afternoon; just in case you have to visit someone as well," he added looking at her forlorn expression.
Doyle opened his eyes gently. His head felt like there was a trip hammer at work, and his mouth tasted of sawdust. Everything hurt! He moved his head gently and nearly passed out with the effort. He saw saline and glucose drips hanging by his head, their plastic tubing snaking down and entering his body. His mouth felt swollen, and his limbs ached. Very slowly, he turned his head to try and locate the low rumbling sound he could hear. Eventually he found Bodie, asleep in the big chair next to his bed. He was snoring gently, like a well fed bear. Doyle's eyes travelled around the room, and came to rest on Sally's blonde head, resting at the foot of the bed. She was also sleeping. Doyle looked at both of them, and decided they probably had the best idea. Closing his own eyes, he was soon asleep again.
Three weeks later, Doyle left hospital. His ribs were on the mend, and his back was healing well. The welts had not been deep, and the consultant was confident there would be little scarring. The bruising was a riot of colour. Greens, blues and purples, all vied for room across his torso. Once the drug had worked its way through his system, Doyle was relieved to learn there were would not be any lasting effects. On a more private matter, he had been assured the vicious kick to his genitals had not caused any damage, and 'normal relations' could be resumed when he felt like it!
Bodie collected him from the hospital and drove him to his new flat. Cowley had decided in view of the security breach, Doyle could no longer stay in the Chalk Farm apartment. This time he had been assigned a newly renovated mews flat near Regent's Park. Sally and Betty had been busy moving his possessions in, and they were there when he walked over the threshold of his new abode. The ladies had worked hard, and Doyle felt a welling up of emotion as he took a tour round his home. There were new curtains at the windows, his books and pictures on display, and his record collection neatly housed on a shelf. The flat was warm and cosy, the fridge and kitchen cupboards well stocked and one of the recently introduced duvets on his bed.
"Saves you time making the bed," Sally explained. "You just give 'em a shake, and that's it. Lighter too," she added, "so it'll be better for you while you heal . . ." her voice trailed off as she remembered the extent of his injuries.
Doyle gave her hug.
"Don't worry Sal. I'm made of harder stuff than that. Unfortunately, sometimes it comes with the territory. Anyway," he chuckled, "everything's in working order!"
Betty shook her head.
"Ray Doyle, you are incorrigible," she scolded.
Later that morning, after the ladies had left, and Bodie had finished most of a packet of biscuits, Doyle sat in his freshly painted lounge, watching his friend wipe the crumbs from his mouth. He stared at the dark haired, blue eyed man and a wave of affection shot through him.
Bodie stopped licking his fingers and stared at Doyle.
"What's up sunshine, 'Ave I still got chocolate round me mouth?"
Doyle smiled gently.
"No. It's all gone now. I just want to . . . wanna say . . . ." Words failed him, and too late he realised a single tear was running down his face.
Bodie realised what was going on immediately. He threw a clean hanky at Doyle. He began to speak to his friend.
"Ray," he said gently, "there's nothing to say. You'd 'ave done the same thing for me, or Murph or whoever. In our job we occasionally come up against people like Bailey. Your only 'crime' was that you were a bloody good policeman who did the right thing. 'Salue populi suprema lax esto' as they say!"
Doyle looked up in amazement at Bodie.
"What!"
"The welfare of the people is to be the highest law," replied Bodie.
Bodie rose and went into the kitchen. He returned with two more mugs of tea, and plonked one down in front of Doyle. For the next hour they talked of desultory topics; cars, football, women and Christmas.
Eventually Doyle asked Bodie if he would mind running him around. He had some errands to do, and no transport, his car being back at the CI5 car pool. Bodie was off duty, and had showed no signs of leaving. However, Doyle's first request brought a black look to the handsome features. The big man was clearly very unhappy with his partner, but Doyle, who knew he could wind Bodie round his little finger, made it very clear that he would accomplish the first trip with or without help.
Thirty minutes later, the two agents were shown into Limehouse Police Station. As they sat in the stark waiting room, Bodie, who was clearly bursting to comment, couldn't hold back.
"Why the fuck do you want to see 'im?" he asked. "After what he put you through?"
Doyle considered the question.
"I'm not sure mate," he replied. "I need to look at him, and for him to see me. After all, it's 'cos he took it too far with me, that 'is lot turned on 'im." As usual, Doyle's accent thickened when he was stressed, a trait Bodie used to judge how much help Doyle needed.
Their conversation was cut short, as the door opened, and Bill Bailey was brought in. Gone were the expensive clothes, and the overblown, heavy jewellery. Bailey was dressed in a blue prison issue overall. He started when he saw Doyle, and seemed almost frightened.
"Come 'ere to take a last look 'ave yer Doyle?" Bailey sounded tired and broken.
Ray Doyle stared long and hard at the man who had tried to exact revenge on him. He took a breath and spoke.
"Just wondered how it felt knowin' your lot had turned you in," he asked. "The fact you felt you had to go after me just reinforces what I knew all along," he continued. "I was right to give the evidence over all them years ago. It stopped your family in their tracks. No one likes your sort . . . targeting primary school kids. The boys in Limehouse worked long and hard to keep the community together, and your family almost blew it apart. Ask yourself big man, when your kind turns on you, who was right?"
Doyle turned and left the room. Bodie eyed up Bailey.
"Nothing you could ever do to 'im would've changed a thing," he said. "You'd met your match before you started, and were too stupid to realise it. Hope you rot," he added as he left the room.
Bodie caught up with Doyle in the station. Doyle was talking to the desk sergeant; another policeman walked by and greeted him warmly. It was clear to Bodie, that Doyle was fondly remembered within the tight knit community.
He waited outside until Doyle wandered out. They got back in the car, and Bodie gunned the Capri out into the west end bound traffic. He snatched a quick glance at Doyle, noting the tension in the smaller man.
"OK mate?" he asked.
Doyle nodded. "I'm fine Bodie, honestly. I was frightened. I had to see him, 'cos once I did that he wouldn't have any control over me." He looked at Bodie's worried face and burst out laughing.
"Oh Bodie mate, I'm really OK. I'm not going to have nightmares or anything. C'mon I need to get to the bank, and then you and I are going shopping!"
The following day, Doyle returned to light duties at CI5. Cowley welcomed him back, almost with open arms. He was so pleased to see the young man had not suffered any lasting injuries from his ordeal.
"Doyle," he boomed, "I've seen the hospital report, and you'll be on office duty only for this week. I've booked you in for an assessment with Macklin, who will ensure you are physically fit for duty, and you will go and see Dr Ross, to discuss whatever she feels you need to," he said testily.
Cowley had never been convinced that Dr Ross had any empathy with the aims of CI5, and was actively looking for a more suitable candidate to oversee the emotional and pastoral care of his team. He caught sight of Bodie, smirking behind Doyle.
"Bodie, you might as well join Doyle when he sees Macklin. I've noticed the biscuit jar in Betty's room is empty, and you've spent an inordinate amount of time with her lately. I don't like sharing my resources," he added wickedly.
Bodie's jaw dropped open. Doyle cackled with amusement, a welcome sound to all who heard him.
"Got you there mate didn't he? You playing too close to home?"
Doyle wandered off to his desk, exchanging words with staff and agents alike. A few minutes later Bodie joined him, and together the two men made their way back to Betty's office. By the time Bodie had opened the door, Doyle was carrying a huge bouquet of mixed blooms. He gently placed them on her desk, amused at her wonderment.
"Just a thanks for sorting out my flats," he said. "It helped me out no end. You're a love," he added kissing her lightly on her forehead.
His next port of call was at the rest room. Again, he was armed with flowers, but also with a large box. He found Sally, sitting quietly in the corner, dictating notes into a small machine. She smiled at him and rose to give him a long hug. Doyle presented her with the bouquet and his thanks. He also gave her the box.
"What's this Doyle? It's not my birthday for months," she said.
"Stop chattin' and open it," he said easily, "satisfy your curiosity."
Sally quickly tore the wrapping paper from the box. She gave a gasp as she opened it. Inside was a gorgeous cream cashmere wool coat.
"Oh Ray, whatever did you do that for?" she cried. "It's beautiful!"
"I sorta ruined your other one, and Christmas is just around the corner," Doyle replied.
Sally looked at him, and snaked her arms around his neck. She stared into Doyle's strange green eyes, and kissed him on the tip of his nose.
"You didn't have to do this," she said softly, "I was so worried you were going hypothermic, using my coat rather than Bodie's leather jacket seemed the best thing to do."
"Thank God I didn't have to replace his jacket then," he said. "Shopping with Bodie for clothes is a form of torture in itself, and I think I've had my fill of physical abuse this year." He smiled at the young blonde woman.
Sally grinned at him.
"You were lucky! I was just about to go off duty and was meeting Tim. We were going Christmas shopping, and I'd just got changed when all leave got cancelled. Otherwise, it would have been my old reefer jacket instead."
Doyle hugged her again and turned to go leaving her standing there clutching the coat. Outside Bodie was waiting for him. He looked closely at his mate.
"OK?"
Doyle nodded an affirmation.
"Good, 'cos there's mince pies in the squad room and I'm hungry!"
It was good to be back.
The End