"Are you sure this is the right place, Doyle?"
It was a dark, dank night and the alleys all looked the same – sinister. Doyle said nothing, their torches picking up scuttling rats and the rotting detritus of the neighbourhood. The power strike had been a field day for burglars. The police had been blindly looking for looters and thieves as the city was once again plunged into darkness. The energy companies were bringing the country to its knees. Three-hour power cuts two nights a week; and that was just for starters. CI5 felt sorry for the police who were up to their necks in break-ins and muggings. But this wasn't a police matter. This was a CI5 matter. One of their number – a new recruit called Peter Bevins of the Met – had been reported missing. His clothes were found on Brighton beach. No note, no nothing except his driving licence. The Queen of Cybernetics hadn't had him down as a potential suicide. He'd gone through the rigorous training of any agent. Not the brightest of the bright but not everyone could be first. Cowley had been satisfied.
Doyle had talked to his contacts in the Met, and Bevins' former colleagues could only shrug their shoulders. Bodie though got a lead from a former girlfriend. She was very nervous at talking to anyone from CI5 – she didn't want to be found out as a sneak – but Bodie had won her round and got a name out of her. Doyle recognised the name – Turnbull. He was an informer. It had taken a while to track him down – men like Turnbull don't advertise themselves. He had known of Bevins in his Met days and had even known of Bevins' new career. He told Doyle, in a particularly dubious pub, that Bevins was onto something, or someone. The agent had been very cagey about it, which had the informer's nose twitching. "You should have been a copper," Doyle thought as Turnbull got into his stride. He eagerly told Doyle that he had followed Bevins, even through the blackout, and saw him meeting with McBain, a known gang leader. Not a nice character to cross swords with. Their second meeting hadn't gone well. From what Turnbull had overhead, Bevins had overstepped the mark and pointed a finger at McBain's No 2. Not a wise move; not wise at all. Turnbull had left the scene when things got ugly between McBain's mob and the out-numbered agent.
That evening Turnbull was at the train station meeting – well, it didn't matter who or why – and he noticed a man limping onto the southern platform. At first he'd taken him for a tramp, but the man intrigued him as tramps don't usually travel far afield. After his meeting with – it doesn't matter – he'd gone onto the platform (he knew how to avoid the ticket inspectors) and saw the man get on the Brighton train. He'd turned his head towards the station clock as the whistle blew and, even through the blood and bruises, Turnbull recognised the agent.
Doyle slipped his informer a hefty £50 and reported all this to his agents back at base. They assumed that Bevin had gone to ground, perhaps (they hoped) staging his own suicide to shake off McBain and his gang. But where was he now? If he was in the state Turnbull said he was in, he'd stand out in a crowd. Cowley confirmed that Bevin hadn't been on any case involving the McBain gang. If there had been a link, Bevin hadn't told Cowley about it. There's one thing the Cow abhors, it's an agent holding out on him. But his anger could wait – for the moment. Finding Bevins was the top priority.
Cowley sent two of his agents down to Brighton to pick up the trail there. Meanwhile, Bodie and Doyle dug into Bevins' past. They were exhausted after trawling through endless files – assessments, his career, his personal life. He had been a busy boy. Dazed, they reported to Cowley the following day after a few hours' sleep. Nothing.
Cowley said that his agents were returning from Brighton ("Lucky sods," Bodie and Doyle thought to themselves wistfully). That afternoon they all got their heads together and decided on a few avenues to try. They were long shots – fishing in the dark – but they had to try something. Henderson did suggest that, if Bevins had gone to ground, he'd have to come out of hiding eventually and in his own time. This logical suggestion was shot down by a brooding Cowley. The other agents had been thinking along the same line and were glad that they hadn't been the one to suggest what everyone else was thinking.
The safe house which a few agents, including Bevin, had been using had been put under surveillance but had not yet revealed any movement. There was a bolthole, though, that Doyle had found buried in the Met files. It had only been referred to once and that was some years ago. He mentioned it to Bodie, who shrugged philosophically. Now here they were, in the blackout, getting wet and hungry looking for this shadow of Doyle's.
Sensing Bodie's mood, Doyle whispered, "Not far now." It was a roomer above a pawnshop. The area was known for brothels, but there were no toms around at this hour and in this impenetrable darkness. After stumbling around some more, they eventually found what Doyle was looking for. Bodie held the torch as Doyle used his skeleton key and made short work of the flimsy lock to the communal stairs. They tested each stair tread carefully before putting their weight on it. Their guns were drawn, their hackles were raised. The house was silent. Bodie trained the torch on each tread until they got to the first landing. Then the next. Doyle halted and pointed to the door. Bodie nodded. Doyle carefully tried the door. Locked, as they had expected. Bodie raised the torch and Doyle set to work again. It was easier than the street door. They crashed in as agents are wont to do, guns drawn. Bodie flashed the torch around systematically. The beam darted along the short corridor. Nothing. They took the first room on the left. It was the living room. The beam arced back and forth. Bodie thought he'd picked up something sparkling. The beam backtracked again. A woman was pressed up against the further corner, her eyes wide and frightened.
Bodie was about to say something, when Doyle pressed forward. "Bevins?"
Had Doyle gone mad? This was a scared prostitute. Look at the skinny legs, the oh so short skirt, the grotesque make-up.
"Don't shoot!"
The agents lowered their guns. A male voice.
"How the hell did you know, Doyle?" asked an amazed Bodie. Bevins was thinking the same thing.
"Toms don't use aftershave," Doyle said, sniffing loudly into the darkness. "Or that much make-up. Who were trying to hook? A blind man with a head cold?"
Bevins had prised himself off the wall and looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him up. He'd never live this down.
"We have friends in the business. You know that, Ray," Bevins whined. "She lent me her gaff for a while. I got a bit knocked about …"
"We know," Doyle interrupted.
"So I'd be recognised, wouldn't I? You know that McBain's boys are after me?"
"We know," Doyle repeated.
"But the Cow doesn't." Bodie leaned forward menacingly. Bevins' gulped hard.
"I can't go out …"
"You're going to have to mate. It's either McBain or the Cow."
Bevins got a strong impression that Bodie was enjoying this.
"Have you got any clothes – apart from your nylons that is?"
Yes, Doyle was enjoying himself, too. Bevins trailed unhappily to the bedroom and the agents let him get on with getting changed then scrubbing the make-up off his damaged face.
"Come on, Sunshine," Doyle said, pushing a refreshed Bevins towards the door, "I'm sure the Cow would like a wee chat. He's only been up most of the night."