London sweltered under the high, midday summer sun, basking in a heat wave that made the air shimmer above the gridlocked traffic. Angry businessmen in shirt-sleeves with loosened ties honked their horns and swore at each other as they vied for space to manoeuvre around the road-works that were the cause of the delays. Amidst it all, traffic cop Graham Morris blew his whistle and gestured for a particularly dopey-looking man to move his car forwards. The stink of fumes was high in the air, giving Graham a pounding headache, and the constant blaring of car horns did not assist.
Graham glanced away from the traffic chaos long enough to check his watch, relieved to note that there was less than hour before the end of his shift, by which time rush hour should be all but over. He could hand over to another officer and head home, where his wife of six months would have some home-made lemonade chilling in the 'fridge and something tasty ready for dinner. Consoled by the thought, Graham raised his hand to stay the advance of a particularly aggressive Mercedes driver. Waving through an old Renault, Graham gestured for the Mercedes driver to come forward.
Suddenly, something hit him in the shoulder, and Graham jerked back from the impact, grunting in surprise. He glanced down in dumb shock at the red stain spreading across the front of his uniform. A second, thudding impact took him in the chest. Graham choked, suddenly unable to draw breath, his lungs leaden and heavy, as the impact sent him sprawling backwards on the road. He heard confused shouting around him, and then a woman started screaming. He was vaguely aware that there must be a problem somewhere and as the nearest officer he should go and check it out… his vision faded, and Graham knew no more.
**CI5**
"A traffic cop," Doyle's voice carried a trace of frustration, "who the bloody hell would want to kill a traffic cop?"
"Maybe a pissed-off driver," Bodie suggested, casting a glance around the mess of traffic still clogging the streets, "any of these guys carrying an Armalite rifle?"
Doyle ignored his partner as he knelt beside the dead cop. Graham Morris, aged 22, left behind a woman widowed after just 6 months of marriage. Several other uniformed officers stood around keeping back nosey pedestrians and ushered on the traffic. They all kept glancing at the body and around the surrounding area; fury and bitterness in their eyes. The loss of one officer stung all officers and there would be no rest while a cop-killer walked the streets.
"From the angle of the entry wound, the bullet came from on high," Doyle commented, getting to his feet, "any guesses?"
"Up there," Bodie pointed immediately, "it's what I'd choose…"
Doyle followed the direction Bodie pointed. Behind the nearby row of shops, a high rise block of flats towered up into the sky. The two CI5 agents surveyed the building for a long moment. The shot need not have come from the roof – it was more likely to have been taken from a window or balcony. The killer was no doubt long-gone, but the building could contain vital evidence – if it was the shooter's hide-out. There seemed no other viable buildings nearby.
"Let's go and check it out," Bodie said, at length, "let's take some uniforms…"
"You, you and you," Doyle pointed, "come with us."
The three men he had picked out nodded grimly. An ambulance had finally made it through the backed-up streets and Graham's body was carefully covered over and removed. A cop was dead, London continued to bake in the heat, and CI5 were on the case.
**CI5**
Bodie climbed the stairs slowly, almost reluctantly. It was hot and dusty inside the block of flats. They'd been frustrated to find that they had to break in to gain entry – it seemed the block was scheduled for demolition as part of an urban renewal project. They had already dismissed the first four floors as being too low to effectively hit a target on the main road. So, they'd started on the fifth floor; Bodie, Doyle and three uniformed cops. Now, Bodie was getting up to the thirteenth floor and was in dire need of a drink – preferably something very cold and definitely alcoholic. His radio transmitter beeped in his pocket and he pulled it out.
"3-7," he said, by way of acknowledgement.
"Bodie," said Doyle's voice, sounding as weary as Bodie felt, "one of the uniforms found a tramp on the eighth floor; claims he didn't see anything but he's being taken in for questioning. I'm going up to the fifteenth floor while the other two take the fourteenth."
"Acknowledged," Bodie nodded, wiping sweat from his eyes, "out."
He dropped the transmitter into his pocket, and stepped onto the landing. The door of the flat immediately to his right stood slightly ajar. Immediately, he drew his gun, and held it up at shoulder height as he leaned against the wall. He carefully pushed the door back, and then threw it back on its hinges, in case anyone was stood behind it. The door rebounded off the wall with a resounding crash, as Bodie leapt through, scanning the corridor quickly. He swept through the tiny flat quickly; the lounge, kitchen and bathroom were all clear of everything including carpets. However, in the bedroom, Bodie found what they were looking for. He reached into his pocket and summoned Doyle on the R/T.
"Thirteenth floor," he reported, "Flat 26. I've found the murder weapon."
"On my way," Doyle replied, crisply.
Bodie crouched down and admired the rifle without touching it. There were two spent cartridges on the floor; if the killer had decided to leave the gun, Bodie supposed it did not matter that the cartridges were left behind as well. The rifle was a black, polished killing machine; Bodie's expert eye noted the length of the barrel and the addition of a telescopic sight; he wondered, privately, if their sniper was a poor shot. It was a very close-range hit for a rifle of this kind and a skilled marksman would not have needed two shots with a rifle this good. Bodie's instinct told him that, somehow, whoever had killed Graham Morris was probably not someone who had done it before. He heard a noise behind him and glanced up as Doyle entered the room, one of the uniformed offers in tow.
"Get onto forensics," Doyle told the man, "and tell them to get up here fast."
The cop nodded, gave the rifle a filthy look, and left the flat. Bodie nodded to his partner as Doyle came in and took a look at the rifle, letting out a low whistle.
"A weapon like this and it took two shots to make the hit?" Doyle mused aloud.
"I know what you mean," Bodie agreed, grimly, "something's not right… I've got a really bad feeling about this."
"It's called 'thirst'," Doyle replied, with a smirk, "Come on; we can leave this one to the Met boys. I'll buy you a drink."
**CI5**
Inside the pub it was hot and stuffy, but relatively quiet. It was a bar favoured by law enforcement and the landlord, Joel Emerson, enjoyed the security that brought with it. The pub was only ten minutes' walk from the station that Graham Morris had called 'base' and word had spread quickly about the young officer's horrific demise. The atmosphere within was quiet; even the civilians who drank there were affected by the despondent mood. Doyle walked up to the bar and leaned on it, clearing his throat.
"Who do you have to sleep with to get some service around here?" he said, in a conspiratorial voice.
Joel turned around from where he'd been polishing up some glasses, a smile spreading slowly across his features.
"Ray Doyle, as I live and breathe!" he exclaimed, keeping his voice low, "Blimey. Heard you were playing with the big boys these days – CI5, isn't it?"
"That's the one," Doyle nodded, "do me a favour, mate – two pints of lager?"
"You got it," Joel started to pull the pints, as his expression grew dark, "you heard about that young copper got killed today? The poor kid – how do you get shot directing traffic, for crying out loud?"
"Did you know him?" Doyle asked, conversationally.
"Graham Morris," Joel nodded, "knew his dad, too – old Johnny Morris. He used to be on the force as well. Died of cancer a couple of years back – the kid was devastated. I always promised his old man I'd look out for him. I did as well – he only met that wife of his in this here pub! Ah, she's a pretty little thing. Such a damn shame…"
"Was there anyone who'd want him dead?" Doyle queried, taking a sip of one of the pints and relishing the coldness of the beer.
"Not that I knew," Joel replied, as Doyle paid up, "you know, Doyle, this is starting to sound like an interrogation. Are you on this case?"
"I might be," Doyle answered, with a grin, "are you going to answer the question or do I have to take you in?"
Joel let out a low laugh, and slung the polishing cloth over one beefy shoulder.
"There was no-one in this world who'd wish harm on that kid," he said, bluntly, "and if you're on this case, Doyle, you promise me you'll catch the bastard that did this."
"We will, Joel," Doyle nodded, picking up the beers, "don't worry, we will."
**CI5**
Bodie accepted the pint that Doyle held out, and drank deeply, savouring the cold, fresh taste. He'd chosen a table near an open window, but with no breeze blowing it made no difference to the sweltering heat both inside and outside the pub.
"Learn anything?" Bodie asked, at length.
"Not really," Doyle replied, casually, "Graham's old man was in the force as well, died a couple of years ago, apparently. No real enemies; he was still doing the small stuff – just a rookie looking to build a career."
"Poor bastard," Bodie agreed, sympathetically.
Bodie knew, as well as anyone, that there were two things the police hated more than anything else; a bent cop and cop killers. He knew, too, that as an ex-copper, Doyle would be feeling the loss as keenly as any of the boys in blue.
"Did you know him?" he asked, eyeing his partner over the top of his pint glass as he took another drink.
"Who: Graham Morris?" Doyle gave a snort of a laugh, "No. He was probably still at school when I left the force. I think I knew his dad – or at least, knew of him. He was a Chief Inspector when he retired, I think."
"You reckon it could maybe have something to do with Mr Morris senior?" Bodie asked, "The sins of the father and all that."
"Could do," Doyle shrugged, "we need to do some digging, mate – pull out some files."
"Great," Bodie said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, "how many cons do you think a Chief Inspector could piss off enough during his career to make them want to kill his son?"
"We need to narrow it down," Doyle replied, taking a mouthful of beer, "Mm, recent releases from prison, parolees, that sort of thing. Someone could be back in town with an axe to grind – they find out Johnny Morris is dead and decide to make a hit on the son instead."
"Could be," Bodie allowed, "it's still a lot of paperwork…"
"Let's make Control do it," Doyle grinned, pulling out his R/T.
Bodie listened as Doyle radioed through his request as he leaned back in his seat. The heat was wearing, and he disgustedly remembered thinking that he had left this sort of sweaty discomfort behind in the Congo. He drank his beer steadily, not wanting to let the cold pint get too warm.
"They're running everything we've got through the computer as we speak," Doyle reported, shoving his R/T back into the pocket of his jeans, "they'll let us know if anything crops up."
"I still don't like it," Bodie shook his head ominously; "something doesn't feel right…"
He paused, uncomfortable.
"Go on," Doyle prodded him.
"It feels… it feels like just before a storm," Bodie admitted, "something's going to break. Something big…"
Doyle glanced at Bodie's dark expression, and nodded. He could feel it too. It was if the hot, heavy weather brought with it a sense of foreboding. Doyle drank deeply, finishing the last of his beer.
"Come on," he said, getting to his feet, "we'd better go and report in…"
Waving goodbye to Joel behind the bar, the two agents left the pub and stepped back out onto the roasting streets.
**CI5**