Nightmares.
Bodie joined Doyle as they made their way up the stairs to Cowley's office.
"Wonder what he's got lined up for us today ?," said Doyle.
"Who knows ?," responded his partner. "There's nothing particularly big on at the moment, is there ?."
"Not that I know of," replied Doyle.
They tapped on their boss's door and entered. Cowley was standing by his desk, studying some papers. He put these down as the pair entered, and prepared to give them their orders for the day's work.
"I want you to go to the stake-out on Malvern Street," he began. "Ford and Gilbertson have been there for three days with nothing to report. Use them as your back-up, and go in. See what you can find. I don't think it was false information, but there's no sign of the activity we were expecting."
The pair obeyed their instructions, and half-an-hour later found them greeting the two junior operatives, and studying their report. They had been watching a house in the middle of the terrace opposite.
"And you've seen nothing ?," queried Doyle.
"No, sir," replied Ford, somewhat in awe of this pair. "No cars, and no-one in or out of the door, day or night."
Bodie had gone to look through the binoculars, set up on a tripod. "And no lights at night ?," he asked.
"No, sir, nothing at all," contributed Gilbertson.
"Right," said Doyle decisively. "We are going in to have a look, so get yourselves ready to be our back-up, and follow us in."
The younger pair did so, trying to appear calm and efficient, but really quite excited at the chance of some action with this top-line duo.
If they'd hoped to witness a dramatic 'kick the door down' entrance to the premises opposite, they were disappointed. The pair sauntered casually across the road. Bodie stood guard, while Doyle fiddled at the lock with his bunch of skeleton keys.
But they did crouch back either side of the doorway, as Bodie pushed the door open with his foot. The younger men, especially, were expecting to hear a fusillade of shots, but nothing happened at all.
Bodie and Doyle straightened up, and moved cautiously inside, weapons drawn and ready. The two younger men crossed the road and stood either side of the doorway, as the senior men moved in, kicking open the doors either side of the hallway. But still there was no response. Bodie beckoned them in. He indicated that Ford should follow him up the stairs, while Doyle led Gilbertson towards the back of the house.
But their search was fruitless. The house was clearly empty !
Evidence both in the kitchen, and in the bedrooms suggested that there had been residents, and fairly recently too. But clearly they weren't there now.
Up in the bedroom, Ford found something of interest. He called Bodie.
"Here, sir," he said, and held up the waste-paper bin.
"Good work," praised Bodie, as he looked at the discarded hypodermic syringe nestling at the bottom of the bin.
Ford fished a plastic bag from his pocket, and held it open as Bodie carefully tipped the bin, allowing the item to fall into it, without either of them touching it.
"Might get some finger-prints off that," he commented.
Downstairs, Doyle was also getting help from his junior agent, who drew his attention to a door in the darkest corner of the hallway.
"Could lead to a cellar, sir," he suggested. "But it's locked, and I can't find a key anywhere around."
Doyle tried to fiddle with his special keys, but couldn't get them in. He bent down and peered into the lock.
"Looks as if the key's still in there," he said.
"But, sir," exclaimed Gilbertson brightly, "if it's locked from the other side, there might be another way out."
"Well done," praised Doyle, "Which explains why we've seen no activity at the front."
Then he pulled a face. "Looks like we'll have to use a bit of 'brute force' on this," he said.
Together he and the younger man threw their combined strength against the door, which, stoutly built, was a bit resistant. But at the third attempt, it yielded. It swung open with a crash, and only Doyle's quick grab at Gilbertson's arm prevented the youngster from pitching down the flight of stairs that was revealed.
Gilbertson was ready to charge down to investigate, but Doyle pulled him back.
"Hold on," he warned. "We don't know if they've gone yet. They could be down there waiting for us. Let's call the others first."
He went back to the foot of the stairs and gave a call. Bodie and Ford came hurrying down. Bodie showed Doyle what Ford had found.
"Interesting," said Doyle.
The group prepared to investigate the cellar. All had their guns drawn and ready. They had no wish to walk into an ambush.
Bodie reached out a long arm, and found a light-switch, just inside the door. He flicked it on, and ducked back into cover, but there was no re-action, - no burst of gunfire that they had feared might happen. So they proceeded cautiously down the steps, which led into a large cellar, almost empty apart from a few discarded items of furniture, stacked against the side wall. But there was no-one there !
"How did they get out ?," asked Ford, looking a little puzzled.
But Doyle was examining marks on the floor. "It looks as if there were several crates here," he said.
"And those scrape marks look as if they were dragged that way," added Bodie, and moved in the direction he was pointing.
They all followed the line of marks, which appeared to lead straight to a blank wall. But as they neared it, they could see a small keyhole, and a faint outline marking the edge of a flush-fitting door. This did yield to Doyle's keys, and swung open on well-oiled hinges, to reveal a large double garage, also, unfortunately, completely empty.
Bodie strode over to the up-and-over door, and pushed at it. It moved freely upward to open up onto the back street outside.
"This should have been found earlier," he said crossly.
Doyle had been looking round, assessing the layout of the place. "Be fair," he said. "This cellar has been extended under next door's place, and the garage is beyond that. From the outside the door would look unconnected, several doors away."
Gilbertson and Ford had been looking around at the debris littered towards the back of the large space.
Ford handed them what he had found, a scrunched-up piece of brown paper. "I think I recognise that," he said. "An ammo wrapper."
"Right," said Bodie, an expert in this field. He scanned the stencilled number on it. "Small arms stuff, but the very latest model, I think."
"So it could have been arms in the crates they've moved," said Doyle. "Our information wasn't at fault, then."
He looked round the deserted space. "But whatever they're into, we've missed them this time," he added. "A bit disappointing, but there's no more to do here."
Doyle turned to the two younger men, who were looking a bit down. "Come on, lads," he said. "We'll help you pack up the equipment, before we go to report." This gratified them a lot, for it wasn't every senior agent who was so friendly to juniors.
Bodie and Doyle returned to Cowley's office, and reported what they had found. Although not pleased that C.I.5 had missed out this time, Cowley had the sense not to try to blame anyone for it.
"We'll keep an eye on the place," he said, "in case they come back to use it again."
"The syringe that Ford found might help," volunteered Bodie. "Forensics might be able to get prints off it."
"That reminds me," said Cowley, "I've just had a report in from the Drugs Squad, to say there's a new source come on the scene."
"Not Mortinelli, then ?," asked Doyle. "He's usually regarded as the main 'drugs baron' in our area."
"Apparently not," replied his boss. "By the way, you do know his boys are back again, don't you ?."
"Yes, sir," responded Doyle. The twin sons of Mortinelli had fled back to their native Italy, after an unfortunate encounter with Doyle. "They've been back a month now, but the old man is crafty. He'll keep them in line, for a while at least."
"Mortinelli won't take kindly to someone new muscling in on his patch," said Bodie. "What has made the drugs boys suspicious of a new source ?."
"There's a difference in the composition of what they are peddling," replied Cowley. "There's quite a trace of an hallucinogenic element in it."
"Giving the punters 'sweet dreams', then," said Bodie.
"Or nightmares," added Doyle.
"Anyway, it's not our business at the moment," said Cowley, "but keep your ears open, and report anything you hear."
Bodie and Doyle spent several days on enquiries, trying to track down the arms suppliers who might have been the ones using the place they'd found empty. They made their report to Cowley, and were on the way out of the office.
"By the way," said Cowley, "That 'hypo' you brought in proved interesting."
"They got some 'prints' off it ?," asked Bodie eagerly.
"No," said their boss, "they were too smudged to get anything usable."
Bodie's face fell. He'd hoped it would be useful.
"But there were enough dregs left in it, to enable them to do an analysis," said Cowley. "They established the stuff it had contained was from the new source on the market. I told you about that, and they've identified the hallucinogen in it. It's of Eastern origin, only named HN 17 so far, and very volatile. As a trace, it does, as you said, Doyle, promote exciting pleasant dreams, but anything more than a trace is very dangerous. It produces wild fantasies and frenzied violence !"
"Sounds very nasty," commented Bodie.
"It's time we got it off the streets," said Doyle, "but I haven't heard anything useful yet."
"Well, keep on top of it," ordered Cowley.
When they had left, he set to and prepared a briefing message to all agents, to keep their eyes and ears open for the slightest lead that could help them find and remove this latest menace on their streets.
When the breakthrough happened, it came in a very odd way !
An operative, visiting his sister in Balham, heard the story from his sister's husband, who was a policeman at the local police-station. Apparently, they had been called out to a 'domestic'. He had been the officer attending, and had found that one, Timmy Melville, whom they knew as a mild addict, had gone berserk, and attacked his large domineering wife. No action had been needed, but the story was going the rounds as hilarious, for it was very much a tale of the timid little mouse turning on the fearsome tiger. 'Big Bertha' was well-known in the area.
The agent had listened to the tale without comment, but he had realised its significance. Timmy Melville had acted very out of character, turning violent. Was the new drug the reason for it ?. He quickly put in his report to Cowley, who instigated immediate action.
Timmy Melville, recovered and now very subdued, was discretely picked up by C.I 5 men, and taken to the Interrogation Centre. There, scared out of his wits, he quickly told the little he knew, giving them the name of his supplier. This was Joe Laxton, a name already known to C.I5, who kept tabs on all the minor dealers and 'pushers'.
They could have picked the man up, of course, but what they really wanted was a lead on the source, so instead they put him under close surveillance.
When Laxton heard that Timmy had been questioned, he immediately contacted him, and demanded to know if he'd 'shopped' him. But, Timmy, reverting to the timid little creature that was his 'norm', swore blind that he hadn't said a word. And because he was such a little 'wouss', and seemed scared stiff, Laxton believed him.
But he was being watched, very carefully, by a constantly changing team of agents. Laxton wasn't clever enough to spot them, and was unconcerned.
But someone had noticed !
The clever man behind the whole scheme, the man who was bringing in drugs from the East, and was already making a great deal of money out of it, was cautious enough to keep a close eye on all the people he hired. He had spotted a couple of 'tails' following Laxton, and was not very pleased about it.
He resolved to do something to discourage whoever it was. Because he was new to the game in London, having previously operated in Italy, he hadn't realised that the watchers were C.I 5. He suspected that it was people from his rivals in the trade, and so had no qualms about the action he planned to take.
Late one Friday afternoon, it was Bodie's turn on the job. He'd been following Laxton all afternoon, and was looking forward to being relieved soon by another agent. Laxton had only contacted several minor addicts, whose names Bodie already knew. They could have been picked up, but they were really only 'small fry', and the aim was to see if Laxton would lead them to a 'bigger fish', the head man maybe.
Laxton turned into a little café, greeted the girl behind the counter cheerfully, and ordered tea and a 'bacon butty'. He took a seat at the far end of the place, where he could watch a small T.V., currently showing sport.
Bodie ordered a coffee, and slipped into a seat as far away as possible, while still keeping Laxton in sight. He was tired and rather bored, and hoped his relief man would turn up soon.
Laxton seemed very interested in the football he was watching on the small screen, and showed no signs of being in any hurry to leave.
The waitress had left, and been replaced by a weedy-looking little man, possibly the owner, who chatted to Laxton over the counter. He was interrupted by a big man, who entered from the back room, and called him in there for a word. He looked a bit troubled when he came back, but continued his chat with Laxton, while the big man stood behind the counter and watched them both.
Laxton ordered another mug of tea, and it was handed over the counter to him. Then the little man came round from behind the counter and approached Bodie, who was by now the only other customer in the place.
"More coffee, sir ?," he said politely, offering him the cup he had brought. As it looked as if he might be here for a while, Bodie accepted, and drank it slowly, still keeping a watchful eye on Laxton, ready to move when he did.
Bodie woke with a start, feeling momentarily disorientated.
Damn, he thought, I must have dropped off ! He looked quickly along the tables.
Laxton had gone, of course !
Cowley is not going to like this, he thought. I shall get a right 'rollicking' !
He checked his watch. It looked as if he'd lost about twenty minutes. Laxton could have gone anywhere in that length of time, so it would be hopeless looking round for him. Accepting he was in trouble, he settled his bill and left.
I might as well go straight in and 'face the music', he thought. No sense in putting it off ! So he walked briskly back to where he'd left his car, and drove back to base. He felt a little odd, as he entered the door, passed by the ever-vigilant man on duty.
Am I nervous about confronting the boss ? Surely not, he thought.
He heard the sound of voices and laughter coming from the canteen on the ground floor. I'll just pop in and see if Ray's there, he thought. I haven't seen him all day.
Ray was there, having a coffee, and talking with some of the other agents who had just come off duty. As he saw his partner enter, he sent a smile and a wave in his direction.
The smile was not returned ! A grim-faced Bodie was striding towards him.
And then something totally unexpected happened !
To the astonishment of those present, Bodie swung his arm in a blow so fierce that it knocked Doyle right off his seat.
Kicking the chair aside, Bodie leapt forward, and grabbed his fallen mate, yanking him upright. Then his hands were round Doyle's throat, in a desperate grip, as with wildly blazing eyes, he was doing his best to strangle his victim.
It took those watching a few seconds to realise that this wasn't some silly school-boyish game that these two were playing. !
They leapt into action and tackled Bodie in force. But he seemed to have the strength of a madman, and although several of them were hanging onto him, they were not managing to make him release Doyle.
After his initial shock, Doyle had done his utmost to resist, but Bodie's hands were like steel claws, and his strength was ebbing fast.
To the horror of those watching and struggling with Bodie, Doyle suddenly went limp in his assailant's hands.
Bodie, or at least the maniac he had become, let out a roar of rage, and with super-human strength threw the limp form away from him. Doyle hit a chair with some force, and then the wall beyond. He slid to the floor to end up in a motionless heap.
Several men immediately rushed to see if they could help him, while the others, still wrestling with Bodie, continued with their efforts to subdue him. Then, quite suddenly, he stopped resisting them, and they found their grappling hands were now supporting his dead weight. He had passed out cold !
Those who had been on the outskirts of all this struggling, had used the intelligence their training had given them, and had alerted both Cowley and their resident medical man. Both came hurrying into the canteen, with stern faces concealing their astonishment at what they had been told.
Cowley went to the group now standing guard over the recumbent Bodie, and demanded a detailed account of what had happened.
Dr. Thornton went first to Doyle. He gently eased him into a better position, as he ran his eyes and his expert fingers over the limp form. He looked carefully at the bleeding cut on the man's forehead, and the red marks on his throat, and pursed his lips as he gently explored the rib-cage.
"Call an ambulance," he ordered.
"Already done, sir," said one of the anxiously-watching men.
"Good," approved Thornton. "He's alive, but don't try to move him. Let the medics do it."
Then he turned his attention to Bodie. He checked his pulse a couple of times, frowning at what he found. Then he gently raised an eyelid. "Drugged !," he declared brusquely, "or poisoned."
Cowley was crouched beside him. "Clifford's Clinic ?," he queried. He and the doctor knew each other well.
"Good idea," agreed Thornton.
"Right, I'll go and phone," said Cowley. "Doyle ?," he queried.
"Not too bad," said the doctor. "Needs further examination. I'll report when I know more."
Cowley nodded, knowing that Doyle would get the best possible care. He strode purposefully to the door to do his part. Just before he left, he rapped hard on the door to gain attention.
"No word of this goes beyond this room," he ordered. "Understood ?"
His men were well trained. He didn't really need to ask, and a chorus of many voices saying "Yes, sir," followed from all present.
As a result of the phone calls that were made, two different ambulances arrived, collected their respective patients, and delivered them to two different destinations, into the expert care that was awaiting them.
As it was now late evening, and knowing his men were in the best possible hands, Cowley left his checking-up calls till the following morning.
First thing in the morning he phoned his friend, Sir Henry Clifford, whose rather exclusive private clinic specialised in 'detoxing' techniques. He received a good report on Bodie, who being very fit, and not an habitual 'user', was responding very well to the treatment they were using to clear his system.
He then called in at St. Richard's hospital, on his way into work, and spoke to Dr. Fenton who was looking after Doyle.
"He's pretty good, considering what happened," said Fenton in his usual cheerful manner. "He's got several damaged ribs, so he'll be going to X-ray today to see whether they're broken. The head injury worried us a bit, but he's woken up and is perfectly lucid, so that may look worse than it is."
Cowley was relieved to hear this report. Fenton might be jocular in his manner, but he always told the complete truth about his patient's condition.
"Would you like a word with him ?," he asked. "Not that he'll be able to say much. He's got a very sore throat, I'm afraid." Fenton escorted Cowley into the small side room reserved for special patients.
Doyle was sitting up in bed, sipping a drink with a straw. A nasty bruise and a stitched cut adorned his forehead, bandages showed under the unfastened pyjama jacket he wore, but his eyes were bright and clear.
As soon as he saw his boss, he slipped the straw from his mouth, to pose an anxious question. "How's Bodie ?," he asked, his voice coming out as a rather strangled croak.
Cowley hastened to re-assure him. "He's all right," he said. "He's under sedation, and they're working hard to clear his system of the drug he was given. He's not into drugs at all, as you well know, so he's responding well."
"He'll feel bad about me," said Doyle, speaking slowly and carefully.
"They told me he may not remember straight way" said Cowley, "but I'll talk to him tomorrow, when he's recovered a bit."
"Does he have to know ?, pleaded Doyle in a hoarse whisper.
"Of course he does," said Cowley firmly. "But I'll handle it as carefully as I can, I promise you."
So Doyle had to be content with that. Nevertheless, he fretted about it.
So the two patients passed a quiet day. Doyle spent most of his time in the X-ray department, as the experts checked the exact extent of his injuries
Bodie spent the day resting under sedation, the doctors attending him having decided that that was the best way to maximise the speedy clearing of the harmful substance from his system.
The work of C.I.5. went on as usual. Those who had been present at the incident said nothing to anyone else, but speculated among themselves as to the cause, and the repercussions of the bizarre event.
Bodie paid off the cab, and walked jauntily into Headquarters. He greeted the doorman who passed him in, and moved on towards the stairs.
Did Gorman give me an 'odd look ?', he thought. Then he dismissed the idea as just his imagination.
He walked into the duty-room. Two younger agents were there, having a quick coffee-break. They looked a bit surprised to see him, but he put that down to having a senior man walking in on them taking it easy.
"Hallo," said Bodie cheerfully. "Where is everyone ? Do you know where Doyle is ?."
"He's in hospital," blurted out one of them, startled.
Bodie was instantly alert and concerned. "In hospital ?," he queried. "What happened ? Is he hurt ?."
"You should know," snapped the other, who was a great admirer of Doyle, and thought Bodie was just being callous. "You put him there !."
"What ?," exclaimed Bodie, taken aback. "I put him there ?."
Murphy had entered the room, in time to hear most of the conversation. He grabbed Bodie's arm, and began to lead him out of the door.
"Murphy," demanded Bodie, "What's all this about Ray ?. I don't understand."
"I'll let the boss explain," said Murphy as he tapped on Cowley' door and opened it, pushing Bodie in before him.
Cowley got up from his desk, looking quite taken aback. "Bodie," he exclaimed, "What are you doing here ? You should be at the clinic."
"I felt fine, so I left." replied Bodie. "But what's this about Doyle ?."
"I was coming to see you this evening to tell you," said Cowley, quickly recovering his composure. He indicated a chair.
"Sit down, lad," he said, mentally preparing himself for the difficult task, thrust upon him sooner than he had planned.
He turned to dismiss Murphy, who was still hovering. "Thank you, Murphy," he said, "That will be all."
Then seeing the hesitation, and the concerned look on the man's face, he remembered that Murphy was a good friend to both Bodie and Doyle, and tempered his dismissal. "But stay available, will you ?," he asked. "I may need you."
As the door closed, he turned back to the waiting Bodie. He pulled another chair round to sit facing him.
Speaking more calmly than he felt, he said "Now, tell me all you remember."
"I was tailing Laxton," began Bodie, "and we ended up in a café, where he was watching sport on a T.V."
He dropped his gaze downward, feeling a bit ashamed. "Then I'm afraid I dropped off," he admitted. "When I woke up, he'd gone. So I came back here to report."
"What next ?," prompted Cowley.
Bodie began to look a bit confused. "I remember coming into Headquarters," he said slowly, "and going towards the canteen."
He looked puzzled, as he tried to recall what came next. "Next thing I knew was I woke up in some sort of hospital. I felt all right, and my clothes were there in a cupboard, so I got dressed, left without seeing anyone, and came here."
"It wasn't a hospital, as such," said Cowley. "It was a 'de-tox' clinic. We think you were drugged."
"Drugged !, " exclaimed Bodie. "How ?." then he remembered. "That second cup of coffee offered to me."
"Seems probable," said Cowley.
"But what's this about Doyle ?," demanded Bodie.
The nasty moment had come, but Cowley wasn't one to shirk it. So, choosing his words carefully, and trying to be as straight-forward as possible, Cowley told him the whole story.
Bodie's eyes widened in disbelief, and when his boss had finished, he looked very shaken, and sat for a while, lost for words.
Then, in a very subdued voice, he asked shakily, "How bad is he ?."
"He's recovering well," said Cowley re-assuringly.
Bodie got up, and paced the floor for a bit. Cowley watched him carefully, astute enough to let his man work through his shock in his own way.
Then Bodie returned to his seat, and dropped into it with his head in his hands. "He'll never forgive me," he whispered in a doleful tone.
Cowley sprang into action. "Stop talking like a prima-donna, Bodie," he snapped. "Both you and he know full well that neither of you would hurt the other willingly. I saw him yesterday, and his first words were concern for you. He isn't holding a grudge."
"I'll have to go and see him," said Bodie, his voice firmer as he regained control.
"Not today, I'm afraid," said Cowley. "He's having an operation. Oh, nothing serious," he explained, seeing the alarm on Bodie's face. "Just a minor repair job on his throat. You nearly strangled him, you know."
He stood up and moved round his desk, reaching for his coat. "Besides," he added, "You and I are going somewhere else. Back to the clinic to explain your disappearance, and to check that you really are all right."
Cowley drove to the clinic, and talked to the staff there. He found that there had been a sudden emergency, and all staff had rushed to assist, which was why Bodie had managed to slip away without being noticed. Bodie himself submitted meekly to several tests and checks, but as all the results were clear and negative, they were content to make his discharge official. It took nearly all day. Cowley had returned to his office, having left Bodie with strict orders to co-operate fully.
So Bodie had to possess himself in patience till the next day. It gave him time to rehearse over and over again in his mind what he was going to say to his misused friend. But the next day he walked determinedly into 's Hospital, and was directed to Doyle's room. He found his partner, sitting up in bed looking quite cheerful. The cut and bruise on his forehead were now showing in livid technicolour, and his throat was encircled by a pristine white bandage, but his smile was welcoming.
"How are you, Ray ?," Bodie asked anxiously.
To his surprise, his mate didn't reply. Has he decided not to talk to me, he thought ? It was no more than he deserved, but it wasn't like Doyle to be so childish.
Doyle's left hand was scrabbling to pick up something that was on the bedside cupboard. A pencil, which had been lying on top of a small notepad, fell off and rolled away under the bed. Doyle was gesturing wildly for Bodie to pick it up for him. He did so and handed it to him. Doyle used it to scribble on the notepad he now held. He thrust it towards Bodie, who took it, and read the hastily scrawled words.
'I've been forbidden to try to talk until tomorrow.'
Understanding now, Bodie gave a sudden grin. "Good," he said, meeting his friend's puzzled look. "Now you'll have to keep quiet, and let me say my piece."
He did so, using all the impassioned words he had been rehearsing, saying how sorry he was, begging his mate to forgive him, and asking what he could do to make amends.
Doyle was not accepting this passively. He was making frantic gestures to try to stop him, and stretching out to try to grab back his notepad. But Bodie held it steadfastly out of his reach until he had finished his earnest speech.
When eventually he relented, Doyle grabbed the pad from him, and scribbled rapidly on it, before handing it back with a long screed of words on took it and read
"Silly idiot, as if I don't know you didn't mean it. You were so 'high' on drugs. Cowley said it was a huge dose of HN 17, the one we're trying to find. And as for amends, the best you can do is get out and catch those responsible. I'll join you, as soon as they let me."
Bodie would have liked to stay longer, to re-assure himself that the rapport between himself and his partner was unimpaired. But he was hustled out by Dr. Fenton, who had come to check Doyle's injuries, and told the protesting Bodie that his friend really needed to rest.
So Bodie waved from the doorway."I'll be back tomorrow," he said. "Would you like something to read ?"
Doyle nodded and waved back. So Bodie left, feeling much better than he had been before he came in. True to his word, he was back the next day, with an armful of magazines suited to Doyle's taste. He found his mate was speaking again, though rather hoarsely, and with deliberate slowness.
Cowley found them there. He looked carefully from one to the other, but could see no sign of constraint between them. His relief made him attempt, what was for him rather difficult, to make a humorous remark.
"What are you doing here, Bodie ?," he demanded in mock reproof. "Doyle has a good excuse, but you're fit enough to be working."
But Bodie, smooth as ever, parried the words, saying, "We were just planning our next move, weren't we, Ray ?."
Doyle nodded in agreement. Trust him to back the cheeky rogue up, thought Cowley. But it means they are all right together.
"You've had a rough time, I know," he said, "But now you have to put it behind you, and get on with the job of finding those responsible, and ridding our streets of this latest menace."
"Just what we were talking about, sir," said Doyle.
"Well, what have you come up with ?," demanded Cowley, thinking he was calling their bluff.
"Well, apart from picking up on Laxton again," said Doyle, "the café owner needs to be investigated."
Bodie let out a sudden exclamation. "The big man !," he said.
"What big man ?," asked Cowley.
"I've only just remembered," replied Bodie. "A big man came in from the back room in the café, and stood there for a while. The little man seemed scared of him."
"Well, there's a starting point," said Cowley. "But don't go alone. Find someone for temporary back-up till Doyle's better."
Cowley left, well satisfied that in spite of a nasty incident, he hadn't lost his best team. They were already planning how to be back on the job.
Bodie lost no time in starting the suggested enquiries, but met with little success. A great many customers had come and gone in the little café. One had come back later that evening, and had imparted some information that Cooper, the owner, didn't want to hear. He had recognised Bodie, and had left unobtrusively. When Cooper learned that he had assisted in action against a C.I.5 agent, he was shaken rigid. Tangling with that organisation was not a good move !
He very quickly contacted Laxton, and told him. It produced in Laxton a sudden urge to go and work for his brother in Liverpool. He'd returned to his rented room, stuffed a few belongings into a battered suitcase, and caught the night train.
Cooper, too, had felt the need to disappear. He'd gone the next morning to a friend in a seaside town. But he had a business to run. He would have to go back, but he needed a breathing space to plan how to handle the situation.
So when Bodie and Murphy visited the little café, they found only the little waitress there, running it. She told them the owner had left her in charge, as he'd had to go away on business. She had no idea when he would be back.
And Laxton, too, was nowhere to be found !
After a few days, Doyle was released from hospital, although he was not yet discharged for active duty. As was his wont, when recuperating, he was to be found in the Records room, or running stuff through the computer.
They already knew Laxton's record, but Doyle found that Cooper, the café owner, also had a record, albeit 10 years old, for petty theft. But there was nothing in any of the files, or in the books of 'mug-shots' that even vaguely resembled Bodie's description of the big man.
This was not surprising, if they had but known it, for the man had come over from Italy with his boss, one Carlo Paliotti, and although well known to the Italian police, neither of them had records in Britain yet.
Cowley received several reports from the police, about incidents similar to that of Timmy Melville, where normally mild addicts had had sudden bursts of violence. The pushers and dealers concerned were traced and followed up, but no contacts were made that brought them any closer to finding the supplier.
The café owner, Cooper re-appeared, and was at once picked up by C.I.5. He was taken to the Interrogation Centre, and questioned fiercely, but to no avail, for he had clammed up completely and refused to co-operate. He denied any knowledge of the drugged coffee given to Bodie. When asked about the 'big man', remembered by Bodie, his reply was "What big man ?" He stuck to this resolutely, despite all their efforts.
The situation was becoming very frustrating to all concerned.
Then one night Doyle woke up with a sudden idea. Acting upon it, he got up early and went in to put it to his boss. Cowley was not enthusiastic, but eventually gave his permission to try, with certain safeguards.
Doyle hurried to the duty-room, and was relieved to find that Bodie and Murphy had not yet left. He greeted them cheerfully. "Cowley has given me permission to try something," he said, "but only if you two take me, in case there's any rough stuff."
"Oh, thanks a bunch !," said Bodie sarcastically.
"Well, I'm not officially back on active duty yet," said Doyle, knowing that his mate wasn't really offended by the implication that he was only required for his brawn.
"What's your idea ?," queried Murphy.
"I want to find the Mortinelli boys," explained Doyle, "to get a message to their father. I want a word in his ear."
It took a while, driving round, and asking questions, to find Ralph and Benjy, but they finally ran them to earth in a seedy billiard hall.
The entrance of the three formidable C.I.5 men, known to quite a few of those present, precipitated a mass exodus. Ignoring most of the men, the trio kept an eye on the two they were after, who shot off in opposite directions, making for the exits.
Benjy didn't get far, as he ran straight into Murphy, an immovable barrier, nearly a foot taller than he was.
Ralph had disappeared through a door at the far end of the hall. But Bodie was in close pursuit.
Murphy pushed Benjy back towards Doyle, who grabbed the scared man by the shirt-front, and pushed him down onto one of the chairs lining the side of the hall.
"See if Bodie needs any help, will you, Murphy ?," said Doyle, still keeping a fierce eye on Benjy.
"Will you be all right ?," asked Murphy, remembering that Doyle was still on sick-leave, and not totally fit yet.
"Yes," replied Doyle, "because Benjy is going to sit quietly, like a good boy, till his brother comes back. Aren't you, Benjy ?."
The words were gentle and almost friendly, but the stance and the steely glare that went with them, were menacing. It was all an act, of course, but it had the desired effect. Benjy sat quietly as ordered.
Murphy shot off after Bodie, but he wasn't away long as his assistance had not been required. He returned to the hall, accompanying Bodie, who, with a strong half-nelson hold, was frog-marching an angry-looking Ralph back towards them. He pushed him roughly onto a chair beside his brother. The billiard hall was now deserted, - the only occupants being the two seated brothers, and the formidable trio of agents standing over them.
Ralph, the more belligerent of the two, ventured to make a protest "What do you want with us ?," he demanded. "We haven't done anything."
"That's good," said Doyle. "I hope you keep it that way. I haven't forgotten our last meeting, you know." The brothers looked at each other warily.
"What I want from you," continued Doyle, "is a little co-operation. I want you to contact your father. I want a quiet word with him about something."
"Is it about us ?," ventured Benjy, in a rather scared voice.
"No, should it be ?," asked Doyle. "Have you two been up to something 'daddy' doesn't know about ?."
A slightly guilty look passed between the twins. Maybe they have, thought Doyle. Could be worth further investigation, but not now.
"Just tell him I'd like to discuss something that could be of mutual interest," he said. It was doubtful whether the twins fully understood that..
"Now, listen carefully," he ordered. "We are going across the road to get a coffee in that little café. That will let you contact your father in private, won't it ?. You do understand that 'doing a runner' would be a very bad move ? We wouldn't like it, and neither would 'daddy'."
Ralph and Benjy nodded. The words were quiet and reasonable, but the threat was very clear. And, although they were afraid of C.I.5, they were even more scared of their very forceful father.
"Come and tell us his response," said Doyle. "We'll be waiting."
They didn't have to wait very long. The Mortinelli brothers entered the little café, where the C.I 5 were sitting, close to the window, to keep an eye on the door opposite, and came up to them.
Ralph, always the bolder of the two, was the spokesman. "We're to take you now," he said.
He turned and pointed out of the window. "That's our car, the silver Escort. If you'll follow us…."
"I don't think so," Doyle interrupted. He turned to his companions.
"Bodie," he said, "Will you 'ride shotgun' with Benjy ? Ralph will come with us."
Bodie and Murphy had been very quiet, playing their role of back-up, and letting Doyle 'run the show', which they felt he was managing very well.
They saw what he was doing now, separating the twins. It wasn't that he feared any adverse action from their father, - he wouldn't be so stupid. But keeping the boys apart would keep their morale low, and make them more compliant. The cars set off, and made their way across town to the very select and expensive residence where Mortinelli lived.
C.I 5 had an unusual relationship with this very powerful man. They knew very well that he was the mastermind behind a great many illegal activities. And he knew that they knew ! But he also knew that they couldn't prove it, as he was very skilful at covering his tracks.
If ever they got close to anything, it was only ever subsidiaries that they caught. These 'took the rap', and were well compensated to keep his name out of things. And he was so powerful that none of them dared 'grass', even if they went to prison for him. They were far too scared of him and his wide-spread influence.
As they were expected, the electronic security gates opened as they approached, and they swept up the long driveway.
A couple of 'heavies' moved to open the doors as the cars came to a halt, and they were escorted into the house. They were led into a spacious lounge where Pietro Mortinelli awaited them. He was a big powerfully-built man, with dark hair just showing signs of grey and a big moustache. It was evident, in the way that his sons and the servants behaved towards him, that he ruled with a rod of iron, and was greatly feared.
But he was crafty enough to realise that it was in his interests to remain on good terms with C.I.5, as long as they had no proof against him. So he greeted the trio affably, invited them to sit down, and offered refreshments.
His deep strong voice was friendly, as he said, "My sons tell me that you wanted a word with me. About what, pray ?."
Doyle answered him. The other two were quite content to keep quiet, and let him play out his clever scheme in his own way. "I wondered whether you knew about HN 17 ?," he queried.
The blank look on the man's face showed that he clearly did not, so Doyle went on to explain. "It's a rather nasty hallucinogenic drug brought in from the East," he began, "In a very light trace it produces pleasant fantasies and dreams, but anything stronger, and it makes people lose control and become very violent."
"Interesting," said Mortinelli cagily, "But why….?"
Doyle ignored the interruption, and went on. "We've just found out that someone out there is dealing in cocaine with a trace of HN17 added to it."
Mortinelli shot a glare at his sons, and the other men standing by, a fierce glare that said clearly "Why have I not been told of this ?."
"We're having a job tracking it down," went on Doyle. "We're currently looking for a big man who's been seen at a café run by a man called Cooper, but he's proving difficult to trace. Nobody seems to know his name or who he is."
We will find out, vowed Mortinelli silently.
Doyle went on talking, telling about some of the incidents that had been reported, including that of Timmy, the wimp who had turned on his big bullying wife. But, subtly, in a way that his clever friends alone recognised, he was gently insinuating two thoughts into Mortinelli's mind. First, that the intruder was infiltrating his business area, stealing his customers, and second, that he might be losing business because he was being blamed for the nasty ingredient that was becoming rife.
Although he maintained his urbane manner, Mortinelli was fast becoming very angry with what he was hearing, something that was news to him. He was very glad when his visitors stood up to take their leave.
They were escorted down the long drive, and out of the electronic gates. As they sped away, with Bodie driving, Murphy swung round in his seat to grin at Doyle.
"You crafty old stick, Ray," he crowed. "You've been trying to get Mortinelli to do our work for us"
"Well, I might have stirred up a little action," admitted Doyle. "Mortinelli doesn't like competition. It may help us to get some leads."
They reported back to Cowley, who gave a grudging approval of what they might have achieved. Work continued as usual. The search for Laxton and the big man continued, but with no success. Not surprising, really, for Laxton was hundreds of miles away, and the big man, responding to Cooper's warning that he was tangling with a dangerous and un-relenting force, was lying low, and keeping a very low profile.
But although C.I.5 were working hard, someone else was also searching for information, and as his contacts were very different, Mortinelli was getting results. And what he found did not please him at all. As Doyle had said, he did not like competition, and the thought that some upstart had thought he could just come in and work in his area without a 'by your leave' made him very annoyed.
And when Pietro Mortinelli was annoyed, things happened !
A few days later, as Bodie and a now greatly-recovered Doyle were walking back to their car, after another fruitless enquiry, a little man popped out of a doorway, and sidled up to them. He handed a slip of paper to Doyle, and muttered "I was asked to give you this."
He was about to slip back into the dark doorway, but was brought up short as Doyle grabbed hold of the grimy scarf round his neck and pulled him back.
"Hold on, Smut," he said, recognising the un-willing messenger- boy, "Who gave you this for me ?"
"Don't ask me, Mr. Doyle," pleaded the little man, "I daren't say. You know I can't." His voice was full of dread.
Doyle let him go "All right, Smut," he said, "I think I can guess." The little man scuttled out of sight as fast as he could run.
Doyle unfolded the note. It was simply a name, Guiseppe Rosco, and an address in the nastier area of Brixton. He showed it to Bodie.
"Right," exclaimed his mate, "We know where that is. Let's go !."
"Hold hard a minute, Bodie," said Doyle.
"Why ?," queried Bodie. "We can make a good guess where the note came from, and I'm betting that's the name and address of the 'big man'."
"More than likely," agreed Doyle.
"Well," said Bodie in a determined voice. "He's the one who slipped me the stuff that made me hurt you, and I want him."
"I know that," said Doyle, "But let's do it right. If we go there now, you go charging in, and he's not there, he's warned off. He'll disappear, and we'll never find him."
Bodie thought this over, and calmed down a bit.
"Let's report to Cowley," coaxed Doyle. "We'll get a stake-out in place, make sure it is him, and move in when we know he's there."
Bodie looked doubtful. He wanted some immediate action, - much more his style.
"Don't worry," urged his friend. "You'll be right in the front line, for you're the only one who knows what he looks like."
"True," said Bodie, brightening up. "Right, let's get back to base, and get things moving."
It took a couple of days to get results. A watch was set up on the place, in the middle of a run-down terrace, but not a soul went in or out. However, on the second night, the man on the night-vision camera caught a figure sneaking out late at night, and returning an hour later with two heavy bags, having evidently made a visit to a late-night shopping centre.
The picture was blown up and enhanced, and shown to Bodie. He was delighted.
"That's him," he exclaimed. "The big man ! I'll swear to it."
After they had put in their report to Cowley, plans were swiftly made to make a raid on the property. It was arranged for early morning in the hope of catching the occupant by surprise.
Two men were sent round the back to check whether there was an escape route by a window or a fire-escape. They called in when they were in a suitable covering position, and Bodie gave the signal to move in.
They didn't waste any time fiddling with skeleton keys. Two shots at the lock on the door, and the onslaught of a couple of brawny shoulder charges from the back-up men, sent the door crashing back against the wall.
The whole group swept in. At the same time the two men at the back made their entrance. They had gone in in force in case there were others in the house.
The element of surprise was with them ! They found the big man still in bed. A quick search by two of the back-up team established that he was alone in the house. So they converged on the one room.
The squad were under the strictest orders from Cowley that the man must be taken alive, so that he could furnish full information, so there were no guns in sight.
But Rosco wasn't coming quietly. !
He was big but he wasn't fat or flabby, and he was going to put up a fight.
Bodie didn't mind that ! He was looking forward to having a go at the man who had caused him to hurt his friend, and he waded in with enthusiasm.
Doyle was close beside him, not so much to take part in the action, for he really wasn't quite up to that yet, but more to ensure that Bodie's anger at the man didn't make him go 'over the top'. A couple of back-up men added their weight to the fray.
Rosco, clad only in pyjama bottoms, with his very hairy chest glistening with sweat, was lashing out frenziedly at all of them. A wildly swinging arm caught Doyle in the ribs, and he fell back with a gasp.
The men from the back joined in the struggle, and eventually, by sheer weight of numbers, Rosco was overcome and pinned down on the bed.
Bodie straightened up and turned round, and was shocked to find Doyle leaning against the wall, one arm clutching his side.
Bodie hurried towards him. "Ray, are you hurt ?," he exclaimed, greatly concerned.
"Caught me in a tender spot," gasped Doyle. "Give me a minute."
As he spoke he straightened up, and eased himself off the wall. "Better now," he said, smiling at his anxious mate. "It's wearing off."
Bodie took his word, but he made a mental resolve that as soon as they got back to base he would ask the doctor to check on his friend.
One of their men came up to them. "You should see what's next door, sir," he said excitedly.
Bodie and Doyle followed him, leaving the other three to stand guard over Rosco, now securely hand-cuffed to the bedrail as a temporary restraining measure. They entered the spare room and gazed in some amazement. No longer a bedroom, it was now a drug-running factory !
A large table stood in the centre of the room, and prominent on it was all the equipment necessary for 'cutting' cocaine with other substances, (to make it go further). There was a large holdall at one end, containing several large bags of a white powder, and at the other, boxes of little packets, some already filled with the small amount required, ready to be sold out on the streets.
Bodie quickly called Cowley, and told him all that they had found. His wise boss considered the matter for a moment. Then he decided that, although he would have preferred for C.I.5 alone to have Rosco, to see what they could get out of him, it was too big an event.
With some reluctance he contacted the Drugs Squad, and the police. Deciding to see for himself, he arrived at the house at about the same time as they did. So he was able to re-assure himself that everything was being handled as he would have liked it. His authority was well-respected, and accepted with deference.
Rosco was taken into police custody and carted off. Cowley very much doubted whether they would get much co-operation from him, as he had already adopted an attitude of refusing to answer any questions. But being found in possession of so much illegal stuff, and with his finger-prints all over the equipment, there was no way the man could get out of this, and he would undoubtedly go to prison for a long time.
So his main objective had been achieved; to make sure that the nasty poison Rosco had been peddling was well and truly off their streets. He commended his men and dismissed them. They returned to base to write up their reports, and then to retire to the canteen for a well-earned breakfast.
As they went Bodie cast an anxious look at Doyle, and was relieved to see that he seemed quite recovered.
And so it seemed that another case had been well cleared up.
But, unknown, as yet, to C.I.5, Mortinelli had put one over on them. His men had made very extensive enquiries, and he hadn't revealed all that he had found out.
It had suited him very well to give Rosco to C.I.5. He knew that they would act on the information. When he learnt that the Drugs Squad and the police had taken over, he was extremely satisfied, for now his rival's business had been completely disposed of, and no-one could lay any blame at his door.
But he had kept back some vital information. No doubt the police would try and get it out of Rosco, searching for details of how the drugs were brought in to the country, but he felt that the man would stubbornly resist them, and it would take a long time.
The identity of his boss, the man who had dared to set up against him, was only in his hands.
And he would deal with that upstart himself !
Meanwhile what had become of Carlo Paliotti ? When he had received the same warning from Cooper, as Laxton and Rosco, he had dismissed it arrogantly.
He'd dealt with the Mafia in Italy, he could handle anything.
So when he learnt what had happened to Rosco, he was badly shaken. He had no fear that Rosco would betray him; they had worked together for too long. But suddenly the profitable business he had been building had been destroyed. He was in a quandary about what to do next.
But he had very little time to think about it. Going back to his flat late one afternoon, he suddenly found a large black car drawing up beside him. The burly men emerging from this gave him no time to protest, but bundled him roughly into the vehicle. Nobody had noticed anything, and the black car purred away.
Some time later, he was pulled from the vehicle and hustled into a very luxurious building. Bodie and Doyle would have recognised it, but he did not. None too gently, he was man-handled across the hall and into the lounge.
And so it was that Carlo Paliotti encountered Pietro Mortinelli. !
It was quite a meeting. Mortinelli, an imposing figure, was much bigger than Paliotti, but the smaller man was no shrinking violet.
Both were fiery tempered full-blooded Italians !
If the servants employed in the house had not been too scared to say a word, they could have had related a tale to enthral their audience. As it was, they shut the kitchen door, closed their ears and got on with their work.
For there ensued an almighty slanging-match, with both men shouting at the top of their voices in vociferous Italian !
Mortinelli was laying down the law about London being his patch, and how dared Paliotti try to muscle in on it.
Paliotti was retorting by declaring that London wasn't the other man's sole property, and he had as much right as him to make a living there.
The arguments flew back and forth, and became steadily more heated.
The twins and the other henchmen stood as far back as they could, in scared silence. They had quailed at Mortinelli's temper before, but had never heard it quite like this.
Those in the kitchen could hear the row, if not the actual words, but they kept their heads down and got on with preparing dinner.
Then quite suddenly, there was silence. An ominous silence ? They waited with bated breath. Then the door opened and a white-faced Benjy came in. He was shaking like a leaf. But he managed a few tremulous words.
"Father wants to know when dinner will be ready," he said.
The staff were not fools, and wisely took this as a suggestion that everything should go on as normal.
"Dinner will be at eight, or very close to then," said the cook, in as calm a voice as she could manage. Benjy nodded and left.
About three months later, a body was washed up on a Cornish beach. Badly decomposed and damaged, from having been in the sea a long time, it could not be identified. So it was quietly dealt with, and disposed of in the local churchyard, as the local authority had done on many occasions before.
And one, Carlo Paliotti, unrecognised and un-mourned, slipped quietly, as only a number, into the archives of 'unidentified marine accidents.'