Tawn

by sadlady

Doyle is sought out by the travellers he helped in the past

Usual Disclaimer

I don't own the characters of Bodie and Doyle, or any others from the TV series. They belong to Mark One Productions and Brian Clemens.

I borrow them to write fiction for my own (and hopefully your) pleasure, with no financial gain to myself or anyone else.

TAWN

The market was thronged with late shoppers intent on getting the marked down fruit and veg, and any other bargains they could before the stall holders left for the day.

It was the best time for Bodie and Doyle to talk with Doyle's informant – not too many people paying too much interest in two young men hanging around a lingerie stall.

Bodie, acting as observer, caught sight of the young woman as she pushed and shoved her way through the mass of humanity. She seemed to be heading straight for him.

"Tawn? Tawn?

The young woman continued to push her way through the crowds, towards Doyle. He took no notice of her as he continued to speak to Rolie Roberts, who dealt in information as well as having dubious taste in ladies lingerie.

Doyle finished his questioning and turned towards his partner. He noted the set of Bodie's jaw and his narrowed eyes.

"What's got you all twitchin'?" he asked.

Bodie inclined his head slightly.

"Her."

Doyle followed his partner's gaze. He caught sight of the woman and his face broke into a huge grin.

"Ruby! Bloody 'ell you've grown up." He pushed forward and caught the woman's hand. He pulled her close to him, and planted a kiss on her cheek.

Bodie stood there bemused as Doyle slipped his arm around the woman. She was striking to look at. Nearly as tall as Bodie himself, with olive skin and dark eyes black as night. She had finely shaped brows and a full mouth. Her hair was shiny and very dark, and threaded with narrow ribbons. She was dressed after the fashion of the hippie culture – a long skirt and oversized shirt, cinched in at her waist with a belt of plaited, coloured leather thongs. Her wrists were adorned with silver chains and bangles. She was skittish and uneasy and obviously unhappy at being in a crowd.

"Tawn. Come now. Away from here." She pulled at Doyle's arm.

"Ruby, steady on. I'm sorta working right now. What's up girl?"

Ruby looked crestfallen.

"Tawn. Come tonight. You still a gavver, right? We need help." She stared at Bodie. "He with you?"

"Te'sorthene,"replied Doyle smiling.

"Bring him too." With those words Ruby ran off and was soon lost in the crowded market.

Doyle waited, an amused look on his face. He could tell Bodie was itching to know what he'd been party to, but didn't want to ask.

"Well, Rolie didn't know much about those rifles. Says the docks are patrolled twenty four hours. Said Allen would probably unload further down river to avoid raising suspicion. He just doesn't know where!"

"Oh well," replied Bodie, "we've done our bit, earned our gold stars from Cowley. The pubs are about to open Raymond, so we can get a beer and you can tell me what that was all about."

Taking up the corner seat in the 'Blacksmith's Arms', the partners sat down with their beer. Doyle took a long draught and wiped the foam away with the back of his hand. Bodie sat there, prim and proper, arms folded, waiting for Doyle to speak.

The silence grew, Doyle all the while taking great delight in Bodie's expectancy. He took another long drink and sat back in his chair.

"Doyle!"

Doyle laughed at his friend's growing irritation.

"So easy to wind up you are," he said.

Bodie glared.

"What was all that about? Couldn't understand half of what she said. Lovely looking lady . . . how come you know her? And by the way, who's Tawn?"

"Me," came the surprising reply. "I'm Tawn."

Bodie sat there, a blank look on his face.

Doyle began to speak.

"Before I got posted to Limehouse, I was on secondment to the Essex force. There was a problem with some local lads making themselves unwelcome with the travellers. I went in as part of a community initiative."

Bodie grinned.

"PC Doyle and the bored housewives of Essex County," he crowed.

"It was DC Doyle, and I worked with the travellers," said Doyle patiently.

"Ruby and her family were targeted – I got close to them and came to know them quite well. By the way, family, in traveller terms is different from what you think – relations can run into hundreds. They called me Tawn 'cos I was the youngest and smallest in the squad. Tawn is Romani for tiny or little."

Bodie snorted.

Doyle continued.

"The Romani are a mixture of travellers from all over the world. All families have their own traits. Ruby's lot are very tall and dark . . ." Doyle chuckled to himself, "I was considered rather a novelty. Small, but perfectly formed!"

"Well that answered the first question. Now what about the other odd stuff?"

"A gavver is Romani for policeman and when she asked about you, I told her you were my te'sorthene, my best friend or someone who has a spirit heart like me."

Bodie sipped his beer.

"OK. So what does she want?"

"Dunno," answered Doyle, "but I'm going to Epping later tonight to find out."

Bodie finished his drink.

"What about work?"

"We've got all of tomorrow off. I'll be back by then. Anyway, what I do in my own time is my own business."

Bodie groaned.

"I'd planned to see Carla – she's got a stopover in London. Lands later tonight."

"See her then mate, I'm not asking you to come along," Doyle said.

"What! Let you go down to the woods today . . . without me."

"You're sure of a big surprise," came the swift rejoinder

They grabbed a quick dinner and left for Epping just after eight. The majority of the commuters had left, and the drive was uneventful. Doyle drove surely, the route holding no surprises for him. They arrived at the hamlet of High Beach about 9.30 that night. The traveller site was on land bought by Ruby's grandparents years ago, as a permanent base for the extended family. Doyle drove slowly through the gates and up a gently climbing road which ran through the centre of the site.

Bodie looked around with interest. The site was gated, and just outside the village. There was an assortment of caravans, both new and traditional Romani, and several mobile homes pitched either side of a narrow road which ran through the middle of the site. Forming a barrier at the top of the site was a wooden lodge. Doyle pulled up outside the lodge and switched off the engine. As soon as he did, the door opened and Ruby ran down the steps, followed by a tall, swarthy looking man.

"Told you he'd come Da!"

The man walked slowly towards Doyle. He put a meaty hand on Doyle's shoulders and held him at arm's length.

"Still too thin Tawn, but you've grown into a man now." He enveloped Doyle in a bear hug.

"S'good to see you Sol," replied Doyle. He gestured towards Bodie.

"This is my friend, Bodie. He's te'sorthene. I trust him with my life."

Sol turned slowly and took stock of the man Doyle held in such regard.

He saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, standing ramrod straight. In the poor light his features were hard to discern, but Sol got the impression of strength, barely concealed power, yet there was gentleness to him.

'Few see that,' thought Sol, 'but Tawn does.'

He ushered the partners into the lodge.

A small, rotund woman hurried over to Doyle and threw her arms around him

"Tawn, my son, you're so thin. Don't you have a woman to care for you?"

Doyle laughed.

"Binnie! I'm waiting for you to leave Sol, you know that."

The woman laughed gaily and gazed adoringly at her husband.

"Won't happen Tawn. He's a one-off. Wouldn't swap him for the world."

They moved across to the comfortable seating area. Ruby produced mugs of strong tea and sat next to her mum. Sol carefully and expertly filled a long stemmed pipe and spent several moments drawing a flame through the fragrant tobacco.

Bodie sat quietly, not fully at ease with events. His dealings with gypsies were not as relaxed as Doyle's. The Irish travellers were known as a close knit culture and the younger men could be violent. In his youth, Bodie had gone up against a group of them after a night out with friends. The fight was bloody and vicious. Bodie escaped with a black eye and bruises, but some of his friends fared much worse. He had never entirely trusted the travelling community since.

Sol eventually got the pipe burning to his satisfaction, and looked at Doyle.

"Thank you for coming," he began, "it was Ruby's idea to try and find you. We have a problem: you know we like to keep things to ourselves Tawn, but this is outside our knowledge. Young Riley Silk has got involved with some bad men - he's away with them now, and I'm worried. He's very secretive about what he does, and where he goes. He waits on the lower road for them, and they come for him late at night. I followed them last night. They drive a truck which is padlocked and chained. When the cab opened, I thought I saw a shotgun. Riley hasn't come home yet. It isn't looking good."

Doyle sat quietly.

Bodie asked.

"Is there a possibility that he knows them from work?"

"No. These men are much older, and anyway, Riley does for me with the gardening business. He's no need to go off – he gets good money, and the business will be his one day."

"Did you see any name on the truck, or recognise any of the drivers," Doyle paused, "I hate to ask Sol, but is this inter-family stuff?"

Sol shook his head.

"Can't hide much from you Tawn can I? I think it could be the O'Neill family. The truck had a name on the side - Morton's, that big department store; Gabe O'Neill drives for them. He also has a head for lining his own pockets. Not above stealing from them. I want Riley back and I want Gabe O'Neill stopped. I know he keeps an old yard up at Linston. I can't sort it out. I've got Binnie and Ruby to think about. If it went bad, the O'Neill's would come for them. They're a strange lot, and will stop at nothing to protect their family and business interests. I hear things about his camp Tawn. They're not a happy bunch . . . and of course Gabe took Clancy in marriage."

Doyle sighed. Clancy was Riley's sister. The siblings had lived with Sol and Binnie since the death of their own parents in a car accident some years ago.

"I can have a word with him Sol, but I'm not really a gavver anymore. I work for the civil service in a sort of . . ." he searched for the right word.

". . . security role," finished Bodie. "We'll do what we can Mr . . .?"

"Eastwood," replied Sol, "but we're among friends so call me Sol."

The atmosphere in the lodge was sombre. Ruby sat quietly listening to the conversation. Binnie made more tea while Bodie and Doyle asked Sol many questions, trying to form a picture of the situation. At last, they were satisfied they had as many useful facts as they could. The conversation turned to Doyle's initial involvement with the family, and how he'd been accepted by them. However, in due course, the tea was finished, and the partners stood to leave.

"Thanks for coming Tawn. I appreciate it." Sol put an arm across Doyle's shoulders. He nodded towards Bodie. "Thank you too Mr Bodie."

"We're friends, just Bodie," he replied.

The drive back to London was quicker, and they reached central London just after one in the morning. Doyle drove through the West End and pulled up outside his friend's flat.

Bodie opened the door.

"Come on up sunshine, we need to talk about this. You can kip here tonight, and we'll think what to do. It's a private matter, and as Cowley owns us body and soul, we'll have to be somewhat inventive."

Doyle shook his head. He avoided Bodie's questioning gaze.

"Nah –Thanks for the offer mate, but I'm off home . . . need to think things through. We've got tomorrow off. You can call Carla." He started the engine, and pulled away into the night.

Doyle stopped off at his own flat and picked up a camera and small tape recorder. Checking it was working, he took the items back to the car. He had no real plan, other than to see what Riley was up to, and try and talk some sense into him.

He drove back towards High Beach, arriving about three in the morning. He swept past Sol's family site and drove a couple of miles further into the forest. He knew that Sol would not have asked for help unless the situation was extremely serious, and he also knew that he couldn't involve Bodie in any action.

'If this goes pear shaped, at least it'll only be my career down the tubes' he thought.

Arriving at Linston, he found a quiet back road and parked the car. The sky was dark, although the stars shone bright enough without a moon to steal their thunder. Doyle didn't want to risk carrying a torch. This was to be a fact finding recce, and he didn't want to draw attention to himself, 'not without Bodie' he thought.

He made his way silently along the road, until he came to a pair of sturdy iron gates. Partially hidden by the immense stone pillars supporting them, he peered around the corner. He was looking directly into the O'Neill site. It was as different from Sol's site as possible. Caravans and mobile homes, several almost beyond repair, were parked haphazardly around. There was no road to speak of, and no attempt to keep the site clean. Yet it was peaceful, no lights showing in any of the caravans. Doyle noticed that among the shabby and dirty homes, there were two or three brand new, powerful cars, at odds with the general air of dereliction.

"'E's getting' his money from somewhere' thought Doyle. It occurred to him that the area could be a front for something else. Doyle knew most travellers were house proud, and kept their vans and sites spick and span. No one would look twice at this one. Most would assume it was peopled by sly, untrustworthy travellers –the sort who gave the community a bad name.

Doyle, hidden in the shadows, continued his observations: he'd noticed a sliver of light showing under the door of a mobile home close to the gate. Taking a good look around, he moved into the road, and taking a short run at the wall, lightly sprang upwards, finding a hand hold on the top. He swung there for a few seconds, before hoisting himself to the top. He flattened himself and took stock. The light was still showing, and the site was still quiet. Dropping to the ground, graceful as a cat, Doyle made his way towards the mobile home.

As he crept around the yard, he saw the van from Morton's; its doors were wide open, and Doyle saw boxes of cigarettes, alcohol, TVs and stereos. Gabe O'Neill didn't seem to mind what he dealt in. Doyle was amazed how many items Gabe had managed to cram into the van. He slowly and quietly pulled himself up on the flatbed and began to delve deeper into the truck. He was careful not to be heard. At the back of the van he found a stash of brick shaped parcels, wrapped in brown paper. He slipped a finger inside the wrapping and scraped away at the contents. He licked his finger and pulled a face.

Gabe was also dealing in heroin. The sticky substance left a bitter, vinegary taste on his tongue. Doyle realised two things; firstly, such information could result in CI5's involvement, which would present an opportunity for him to bring more personnel on board, although there would be problems for Sol's family if Riley was involved. Secondly, Doyle needed to get away from the site and make the matter official.

He retraced his steps back to the doors. Just as he was about to climb down, the door of the mobile home was opened. Gabe walked out accompanied by a skinny, younger man, who Doyle recognised as Riley Silk.

Caught between either being seen, or hiding in the van and hoping they would walk on, Doyle crouched down. As he did, he dislodged one of the boxes which fell from the van and landed on the ground. Gabe turned quickly and shone a powerful torch. Lighting the interior of the van, he caught sight of Doyle, and with a speed which belied his size, he grabbed the agent and hauled him out of the truck. He struck Doyle across the back of his head with the torch. Doyle crumpled to the ground and lay still.

Bodie had made good on his promise to Carla. She had reached his flat shortly after his return from Epping, and they had gone straight to bed. He watched sleepily as she applied her make up with professional expertise, and pinned her blonde hair into an elegant plait. Carla seemed to thrive on such odd working hours. She smoothed down the close fitting United Airlines uniform, and perched her cap at a jaunty angle. She surveyed her work in the mirror, and turned to face Bodie.

"I'm off Bodie. Two weeks on the Middle Eastern routes, stopovers in Frankfurt and Dubai. I'll call you when I'm back in London."

She glanced at the dark haired man, lying in bed, hands behind his head. He smiled at her.

"I'll need two weeks to recover from you," he said. Carla was an inventive and adventurous lover; she and Bodie were well matched, although both recognised it was a relationship based on lust and little else.

She leant over and kissed him gently, her tongue probing his mouth. His groin tightened and he slipped his arms around her neck.

"No Bodie. I'm running late as it is. It's gone one now and the flight leaves at six tonight. I need to get a move on. They won't hold the plane for me." She extricated herself from his embrace and picked up her bag.

He got up and padded across the floor and into the living room. He unlocked the door for her, and pinned her against the door frame as he kissed her again.

"Young man." A querulous voice sounded from down the hall. "If you are going to bid your lady friend goodbye, at least have the decency to clothe yourself first."

Bodie looked down at himself and realised he was stark naked. Carla, stifling her laughter, pushed him back into his flat.

"Serves you right lover," she said. "A sight like that will scare the female population."

Bodie grinned wolfishly.

"I don't usually share it with the public," he said. "Sorry Miss Carroll," he called out to the elderly woman from number nine, "it won't happen again."

He shut the door, and still amused at his faux pas, showered, shaved and dressed. Idly he wondered if he should call Doyle, but he had a list of things to do which he'd put off for far too long, and he suspected Doyle did as well. Also, he wasn't sure if Doyle had stayed with a girlfriend that night. He winced at a recent memory when he'd let himself in his friend's flat, only to beat a hasty retreat when he realised Doyle was 'entertaining'.

Bodie spent the remainder of his day off in a most ordered fashion. He tidied up the flat, and put wine glasses and the empty bottles in the kitchen. He emptied the waste bin, and sent the full bag down the rubbish chute. His laundry was sorted and bagged, ready for delivery to the laundrette. He spent some time on paperwork, smiling to himself at the inventive way he claimed back his expenses, and finished a report on a recent observation. Grabbing his car keys, he took the laundry bag with him and left the flat. The rest of the day was spent shopping for food and a new jacket. In the evening he phoned Liz, and arranged to have a late supper with her. Much to her chagrin, he pleaded an early start when she made it clear that she wanted to spend the night with him.

'Exit one ex-girlfriend,' he thought as she flounced out of his car. He fell into bed, satisfied and content with his labours.

Next morning he woke early. Doyle was due to pick him up at eight. Bodie got himself ready, and had a swift breakfast – he could always persuade Doyle to stop at the cafe later on. He went back to the bedroom and straightened the bedclothes, plumped the pillows and opened the curtains. By now he was getting impatient and a little uneasy. Doyle was seldom late, and usually contacted him if there was a delay. Bodie phoned his friend, but the call was left unanswered. His first thought was that Doyle was in the shower or on his way, so he sat down and read yesterday's paper again. However, Doyle hadn't appeared by eight forty five. Bodie tried his R/T. The silence was ominous. He called the CI5 dispatcher.

"3.7 here. Have you heard from 4.5 this morning?"

Meredith replied.

"No 3.7. He was on leave – with you I thought. Didn't the pair of you go trawling the clubs last night, looking for love?"

"We aren't joined at hip and lip you know," said Bodie crossly. "Call him up will you and let me know what's going on."

He snapped off the R/T and sat down.

A few minutes later, the radio spat static into the room.

"3.7? He's not answering his phone. Luckily there was a squad car in his road, attending another incident. I got them to check. His car isn't there, and there's no one at home."

Bodie muttered.

"Little toerag's running late then."

However, he couldn't shake off a feeling that something wasn't right, something was out of place.

The dispatcher spoke again.

"Not sure 3. place is locked up tighter than a duck's arse. No windows open, and the upstairs neighbour said Doyle's not been home for a couple of nights. Probably holed up with a good woman! Also, the copper said his mail's not been picked up; it's still sitting on the mat, and there's a parcel outside on his doorstep. Who is his latest girlfriend? Have you checked with her? Doyle probably got luckier than you," he replied cheekily.

Bodie replied in measured tones.

"He's not got a girlfriend at the moment, and he gets excited at the opening of an envelope, so he'd never leave a parcel outside. I'm pretty sure he's in some sort of trouble, and when I sort that out, I'm going to come in and sort you out! Put me through to Alpha One - NOW!"

The resulting call to get into the office as soon as possible wasn't entirely unexpected.

George Cowley sat behind his imposing desk, fingers steepled together.

Bodie stood to attention in front of him. He'd told Cowley of the events at the traveller camp, and his belief that Doyle had gone to sort the problem out in his own time.

"All very commendable Bodie, but the fact remains Doyle appears to have been missing for twenty four hours. Now we must find him." He looked down at some papers on his desk before staring up at the man.

"Are you still here?"

Bodie resisted the urge to salute, turned smartly on his heels and walked out. Stopping by Betty's desk, he asked her who was free to accompany him.

She quickly found the rota and flicked through some pages.

"MacCabe's free, so is Roger Jackson. Do you want me to call them?"

Bodie remembered Sol's warning.

"Both of 'em Betty. This could turn nasty."

Doyle woke with a thumping headache. He vaguely remembered being hit, and dragged into the mobile home. He'd been tied to a chair. Once or twice, someone had looked in on him; otherwise he'd been left alone. Eventually Gabe O'Neill had come in and asked him some questions. In his inimitable fashion Doyle had refused to answer and had goaded the big man. He earned a powerhouse punch for his trouble which had laid him out for the count.

Still groggy, he tried to rub his temples, only to realise his hands were tied above his head; in fact he was virtually immobile. He began to focus on his surroundings, and tried to recall what had happened. Painfully, piece by piece he recalled the events of the past hours. He had no idea where he was, or how long he'd been unconscious. He flexed his stiff fingers, and tentatively moved his legs. He was just wondering whether to make an effort to stand, when the door opened, and Gabe O'Neill walked in. He walked across to Doyle and kicked the agent's feet apart. Grabbing a chair, he placed it between Doyle's outstretched legs and sat down.

"'Who are you?" he asked without preamble. "Don't give me any of yer lip either. It's your fault yer 'ere. Caught you scurryin' around my property. Man's got a right to defend hisself."

Doyle stared defiantly at him.

"I'm looking for Riley Silk. Sol Eastwood is worried about him. Got a tip he was workin' for you."

Doyle hoped the man would think he was just someone working for the family.

Gabe narrowed his eyes and stared thoughtfully.

"No," he said finally, "you're not from Eastwood's lot. I'll get to the bottom of this later. I've got a business to run."

"Heroin," said Doyle flatly.

Gabe smiled mirthlessly.

"Ah. You're a gavver. Might've guessed. Sol worried that Riley's taking the wrong path? Well, he's right. Should've paid him more than a couple of quid to work in his poxy gardening business. Riley! RILEY!"

Riley Silk stuck his head round the door. He was a skinny, hollow eyed youth with greasy hair and, grey, spotty skin. He stood there, shaking, his thin arms wrapped around his body. He sniffed a lot and kept wiping his nose on his sleeve. Doyle took an educated guess he was trying out the quality of Gabe's heroin.

"D'you know 'im? Is 'e from your lot?"

Riley peered short-sightedly at Doyle.

"That's Tawn, 'e's a mate of Sol's. A gavver."

Gabe scowled at Doyle.

"I think I need to teach Sol a lesson 'bout keeping his nose outta my business." He threw a small pouch at Riley. "'Ere, son, take what you need." Riley grabbed the pouch and sniffing loudly, scuttled off. Gabe pulled a thick leather belt from around his waist, and kicked the door shut.

Bodie drove quickly and silently. Traffic along the A13 was light, with only the occasional hold up. MacCabe and Jackson conversed in low tones, aware that their colleague had gone into hunter mode.

Jackson ventured a question.

"Do you know where you're going Bodie? We're really out in the sticks."

"Yes."

Jackson thought it prudent not to ask anything further.

Bodie turned into the travellers' encampment and drove right up to the lodge. He switched off the engine and got out of the car. He bounded up the steps and knocked hard. Binnie opened the door, her face worried and anxious.

"Oh Bodie, have you found him? He's not come back."

Bodie gently steered her into the house, followed by his colleagues.

"Binnie, did Doyle come back?" Binnie looked puzzled. "Tawn. Did Tawn come back?" asked Bodie.

She shook her head.

"Why would he? He told Sol he'd look into things for us, mebbe go and speak to Gabe."

"Where's Sol?"

Binnie went to the telephone and dialled out.

"Sol? Come home please . . . no . . . it's Bodie . . . have you seen Tawn?" She spoke sharply. "Sol, come home now."

A few minutes later, Sol hurried through the door. He was visibly upset.

"Bodie. I should never have agreed to this, but Ruby was sure Tawn could help. Is he in trouble?"

Bodie sat down heavily. MacCabe and Jackson stood there, unsure of events.

"I don't know Sol. We drove back to London, he dropped me off and he said he was going home to think, except he never made it home."

Sol stood, dark and angry.

"He must've gone to Gabe's. I'll take you there. Binnie! Find Cray and Billy. Tell 'em I've gone to Gabe's. Tell 'em to bring the car and follow me. And," he looked keenly at his wife, "keep an eye on Ruby."

The men left the lodge, and got into the car. Sol took the front seat and began to give directions.

Doyle shook his head, trying to clear the sweat out of his eyes. His body hurt everywhere. Gabe hadn't spared the belt, and had gotten angrier when Doyle refused to answer his many questions. Now, he was locked in a small, airless room, made hotter by a bare light bulb. He was no longer restrained by rope. He'd tried the door, but it was impossible to open. His shirt and jacket were in a heap on the floor, his R/T smashed and useless lying near. He gently probed those areas of his skin he could reach, noting the reddened welts across his chest and shoulders. He balled up his shirt and wiped the sweat from his body. Then, mindful of the pain, he slipped down the wall and began to think of how he could sort the situation he was in.

Sol murmured instructions to Bodie, as they drove quickly through the country lanes. They came to a farm, where Sol directed them up a muddy lane. The Capri bumped across rutted tracks, its occupants uncomfortably bouncing around in the back. They stopped at a gate, and got out. The field was full of caravans and mobile homes. Washing lines were strung across the space between the vehicles, the garments hanging lifelessly in the still air. Women and children were out and about, the women washing and chatting while the children played. A couple of dogs, chained to posts growled menacingly at the newcomers. Sol strode across the field to a new-ish mobile home. The door was open. He rapped on the door and called out.

"Clancy? Where's Gabe?"

A woman, aged before her time, came to the door. Bodie winced as he caught sight of her face – her eye was badly bruised, and her lip was swollen. Sol gasped and drew her towards him.

"Clancy. Did he do this?" The woman nodded miserably.

"Bring the child and come back wi'me. We've room a'plenty. You deserve better than this." Sol straightened up and turned to Bodie.

"This is Clancy, Gabe's wife. You can see what type of man he is."

He turned back to the beaten woman.

"Where's Gabe love. We need to find him quickly. Did he bring back a man with him last night?"

Clancy shook her head.

"He never come 'ome Sol. I think he stayed at the Linston site. That's where he does 'is business."

Sol grabbed Bodie's arm and hurried him back to the car.

"If your friend found Gabe, and he got into trouble, we must go quickly. Gabe is vicious and will protect his business. Clancy . . . pack . . . I'll be back for you."

The four men drove away from the camp at high speed. Sol shouted directions above the noise of the screaming engine.

"Left . . . here, HERE. Go on. Look for the Dancing Man pub, 'bout a mile ahead . . . "

Doyle had lost track of time. The room was poorly lit and stifling. The one, small window was thick with grime and dirt, giving no indication of the time of day No-one came near, there was nothing to drink. Idly, he wondered if this was the end for him. He didn't usually dwell on his demise – he could get run over by a bus – but this seemed such a stupid way to go. He wasn't even on duty.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung open, letting in some much needed fresh air; however the heavy bulk of Gabe O'Neill almost sucked the light from Doyle's makeshift prison.

Gabe stared down at his captive. He chewed on a small cheroot.

"You're more valuable than you look gavver. Sol's been to my place with others, looking for you. Now why would that be?"

Doyle shook his head.

"No idea pal. I came to help Sol. He 'ad a problem which needed an outside eye, and he asked me."

"Well, young Riley has a girlfriend back at my place, and she's just phoned here and told him of Sol and your mates. So gavver, what do I do with you?"

Doyle struggled to his feet, and reached for his shirt, pulling it on across his sore shoulders. He left it undone, the room was so very hot Doyle felt sick.

"I think I know who's with Sol, and if I'm right, it'd be better for you if I just wait by the gate for them. No sense in anyone else getting hurt and you're a bit too free with that leather belt for my liking!"

Gabe's mouth dropped open. He had never been spoken to like that before. His temper, size and disregard for the opinion of others, had ensured his leadership within his own small community. Now an outsider and one with an attitude to match his own had dared to answer him back.

He pushed the smaller man back into room, pinning Doyle against the wall with a huge hand.

"Walt. Gimme that rope . . . there by the door . . . hold 'im!"

Quickly Gabe looped the rope around Doyle's wrists, and pulled him out of the shed. Hustling him around the back, the big traveller lifted him up effortlessly and hooked the rope over a wooden beam. Doyle thrashed out with his feet, catching Walt on the side of his head, and spinning him around, managed to topple the hapless man into the side of the shed. Walt dropped like a stone and lay still. Using the momentum gained Doyle aimed another kick at the second man, just missing him.

Too late, he heard Gabe coming from behind. Unable to swing round quick enough, Doyle was enveloped by two immense, hairy arms. His ribs burned from the pain of his earlier beating, as Gabe locked his arms around Doyle's body. His shoulders felt as though they were being pulled from their sockets, as Gabe continued to hang on to him.

"Rummy, get 'is legs. Stop 'im from lashing out . . . that's right . . . 'old 'im fast. Little bastard . . . is Walt alright?"

Doyle wriggled and swung himself around in an effort to throw the traveller off balance. However, his precarious position, hanging from the beam, with his toes barely touching the ground worked against him. Gabe took a step back and slapped Doyle hard across the face, splitting his lip. The salty taste of blood trickled into Doyle's mouth, as he hung there, muscles on fire as the weight of his body pulled on his shoulders.

Walt was sitting up, groggy and ashen, while Rummy poured water down his throat. Gabe stood to one side, muttering to himself.

"Rummy! Get that stuff outta the van and into the truck. Get yerself down to Margate. Find Jack Grady and then phone me. Walt, you dinilo, stay 'ere and watch the gavver."

Doyle raised his head. If he could get more information from Gabe, and if he could free himself, and if he could then contact Bodie . . . 'that's a lot of ifs' he thought dully. He called out to Gabe.

"Offloading yer stash then? Riley won't be happy, losin' 'is supply. Cuttin' and runnin' before the law gets 'ere?" His sore mouth made it hard to speak.

Gabe moved towards Doyle.

"Shut your mouth. You've caused me far too much trouble. Walt," he called across to his companion, "I've changed me mind. Cut 'im down. Sol can have 'im back. By the time I've finished with 'im," he jerked a thumb towards Doyle, "Sol won't want to cross me again."

Walt kicked an old box over to the shed and stood on it while he cut Doyle down. He made no attempt to stop Doyle's fall, merely laughing as the CI5 agent fell in a tangle of arms and legs. Doyle stifled a yelp as his body met the hard ground, jarring his already injured torso.

"See 'ow you like it," he whispered as he gave Doyle a vicious kick in the small of his back.

Doyle was left alone while Gabe and Walt scurried around shouting at Rummy, while they both passed the drugs out of the van and into a rusting old Transit which sat, engine coughing, near the gate. Doyle stared hard at the vehicle, trying to fix its registration and image in his mind.

Gabe stuck his head out of the van.

"Right you two," he shouted, "pick up Riley, 'e's in the lock up . . . 'resting'." Gabe sniggered, leaving little doubt as to Riley's condition. "Take 'im with you. I'm gonna sort this fella out. Call in at Larch Road on yer way. Tell 'em to be ready to move off. I'll be over with the truck soon. Best we move on . . . outstayed our welcome 'ere, thanks to Sol Eastwood. Go on . . . git!"

He then marched over to Doyle. Almost gently, he lifted the agent from the ground, before landing a sickening punch to his belly. As Doyle doubled up, Gabe grabbed his hair and jerked his head back, cuffing the man across the face. Doyle, nausea rising up from the pain, spat a stream of obscenities at the traveller.

Gabe pleased at last to get a reaction, casually dragged Doyle across to an old table, skewed with age, and threw him down on it. He pulled the rope around Doyle's wrists and tied it loosely to one of the legs.

Slowly and deliberately he sat down on the steps of a caravan. He stared into his captive's eyes, noting that Doyle had again lapsed into a cold rage. Despite his injuries, Doyle kept eye contact with Gabe, defiant and contained, a small, humourless smile playing across his mouth.

"I'm going send a message to Sol, and the message will be you," Gabe said.

"You won't be in any state to tell him, 'cos you'll barely be able to walk, let alone talk." He took a small knife from his pocket, and slowly dug it into Doyle's chest, before idly drawing it down his body. Doyle felt a slight stinging sensation, and saw his shirt turn red.

"I'll tell you what I'm gonna do, 'cos I want you to think about it. You'll not know what comes next; I might cut you, or give you a good hiding; take the leather to yer. Or I might just give yer a good kicking. Whatever gavver, you'll be a reminder to Sol to keep 'is nose outta my business."

Doyle stared up at the man, before looking past him and into the afternoon sun. He brought his gaze back to the gypsy.

"Do your best you piece of crap. You'll regret it."

Gabe laughed

"You've got balls, you have, talking to me like that. I'm gonna teach you a lesson. I'm taking the strap to you. You'll treat me with respect after this."

Gabe stood up and removed his leather belt. He raised his arm and brought the heavy thong down onto Doyle ribs. The recumbent man gasped but said nothing. Gabe raised his arm again. Doyle spoke raggedly.

"I warned you mate, you were gettin' in too deep. Don't hit me again – you'll regret it."

Gabe made to bring the belt down again, but then stopped, his arm falling to his side, before he toppled soundlessly on to the ground.

Doyle, lying helplessly managed a grin, as Bodie stepped out of the shadows, dropping a large piece of wood next to Gabe's head.

Swiftly he untied his partner, and rummaged inside his jacket for his R/T.

"It's 3.7. I need police and ambulance immediately at the Old Barn, Linston. And tell Cowley I've found 4.5."

He crouched down by Doyle, gently supporting him.

"You're a bit of a mess, sunshine," he said. Doyle realising his ordeal was over struggled to sit up. He pulled his ripped shirt across his body. Bodie, catching sight of the cuts and bruises that adorned Doyle, said nothing, but he grimaced at the thought of what the man had been through.

"Two more . . . on their way to Margate," Doyle could barely speak. "Reg No WTT 34 . . . no 358W." Bodie hushed him.

"Thank you DC Doyle," he said quietly. "They're not actually. MacCabe and Jackson got them. Two of Sol's lads helped. They're tied up and waiting for the police."

Doyle laid back, eyes closed. He felt heavy and bone tired. Opening an eye, he tried to focus on his watch – he'd lost all track of time – but even this was too much effort; and he was cold. Numbingly so.

Bodie carefully laid his jacket across his partner's body. He could see Doyle was past caring, and shock was setting in.

By the time the emergency services had arrived, Gabe had recovered consciousness and was shouting about his rights. Bodie went over to him and knelt down. He whispered into the man's ear. Gabe stopped his rant and looked up at the tall man. Bodie noticed, with satisfaction, the fleeting expression of fear in the traveller's eyes.

"And you want to pray that Doyle isn't too badly damaged either," he said affably, "or I will make good on that promise. You can bet on it."

Doyle was dozing comfortably in his hospital bed, warm, comfortable and full of some very strong pain killers. Apart from rest and the pain management there was little else to be done. 'No broken bones this time' he thought. He opened his eyes and glanced down at himself. His chest and belly were a welter of rainbow colours – blue, green, yellow and purple, while a shallow gash ran from his left shoulder to his hip, a small procession of neat stitches holding the edges of the wound together. He drifted back into his twilight sleep.

Momentarily, he flinched as he recalled the whistle of the belt as it landed on his shoulders. He moaned softly as other images from the past two days danced behind his eyes. His descent into this private hell was stilled by a warm, dry hand. He was too tired to discern whether it was real or a dream - but he fell into a peaceful sleep.

George Cowley smoothed away a rebellious curl from his young agent's cheek. He moved away from the bed, feeling every second of his fifty eight years. He sighed to himself. Sending his men out to face who knew what, and knowing they might not come back, was a decision he was finding it harder to make each year.

Agents like Doyle, with his sense of right and wrong, and his loyalty to friends would always run the risk of landing himself in trouble. Cowley dreaded the next time he had to wait at a bedside while one of his boys fought their way back to full health. Cowley questioned again, whether such sacrifice was needed.

This time, it had been worth it. CI5 had discovered the huge extent of the drug distribution ring, the travellers' movements making it an easy way of moving the product around the country, and reaping the financial rewards. Gabe O'Neill was facing a jail sentence, and the wrath of the other travelling families. They faced enough prejudice from the community because of their chosen way of life, and Gabe's actions had set back the chance to build some sort of rapport by many years.

Sadly, Riley Silk had died; a piece of collateral damage in the scheme of things, used by Gabe who wanted to cause problems for Sol and his family. Such a tragedy had quickly moved through the travelling families up and down the country. Privately, George thought that Gabe might find it prudent to leave the country once he had served his time, especially if he wanted to lead a healthy life.

He closed the door behind him and limped towards the visitors' room.

Bodie sat there, unshaven and red eyed. The man hadn't slept properly for days. He roused himself at Cowley's entrance.

"How is he sir?" His voice was rasping with stress.

"He'll be fine Bodie. Nothing broken, but he's taken a bad beating. I'm sure they'll let you see him."

Cowley turned to Sol, Binnie and Ruby. Binnie was composed but her eyes were also reddened, and her face was puffy where she had been weeping. Ruby stood there wild and defiant.

Cowley shook hands with Sol.

"Mr Eastwood, thank you for coming along. I understand you know Doyle from years back."

Sol inclined his head towards the shorter man.

"He helped our family many years ago. He's sympathetic to our ways. We trust him."

"Well, he's helped break up a widespread drug distribution network. He gave Bodie a great deal of information before the ambulance arrived. I'm sorry about Riley Silk; a member of your family I believe."

Sol nodded.

"He and Clancy were under my care. Their parents died some years ago – a car accident – Riley was a troubled soul, but I let him down . . ."

Cowley interjected quickly.

"No. He was vulnerable, and that trait was used by Gabe O'Neill. We've learned that Riley wasn't the first young man to be used in this way. Mr O'Neill's cohorts were only too happy to spill the beans on his network. They think that will get them reduced sentences . . . it won't!"

Ruby spoke.

"And what of Tawn, Mr Cowley? Don't you use him in your own way?" The bitterness in her voice was palpable.

Cowley said nothing. Her comment was uncomfortably close to his own reflections of earlier.

Binnie fixed her daughter with a stern look.

"Ruby! Tawn chose his life. It was you who searched for him to help. None of us knew how this would end. We're all responsible for what has happened to him. Excuse her manners Mr Cowley, she holds Tawn, er Ray, in high regard and affection."

Bodie, who had watched the exchanges silently, walked over.

"You're all missing the point," he said. "This is what Doyle does. He cares. He accepts responsibility for his actions. That's what makes him different from men like O'Neill." He closed his mouth abruptly and left the room.

A nurse was coming out of Doyle's room as he approached. He said nothing, but looked enquiringly at the woman.

"You can see him, but he's very sleepy – we're keeping his medication topped up so he's comfortable. He's in a lot of pain."

Bodie pushed open the door and slipped quietly into the room. At first he assumed Doyle was asleep, but the green eyes, despite the drugs and hurting, were open and alert.

"Thanks."

Bodie shrugged.

"You'd have done the same. Riley's dead . . . he was shooting up almost pure heroin. O'Neill just let him get on with it."

"How's Sol taking it?"

Bodie shook his head.

"They're all blaming themselves, for you, for Riley, for the bad press the travelling community will get when this comes out. Even Cowley was put in his place."

Doyle sighed.

"Binnie?"

"No, Ruby. Got a soft spot for you. Told him he used you."

Doyle smiled sadly.

"Well, he does in his own way, but then we know that. Couldn't do the job thinking otherwise."

Bodie sat down by the bed.

"Get some rest sunshine. I'm staying tonight. Betty will look in later."

Doyle closed his eyes.

Romani Explanations

Tawn Boys name meaning small or tiny

Gavva Constable or policeman

Te'sorthene Spirit heart/friend

Dinilo Stupid, idiot