"He's a mercenary, pal. He wants to know what's in it for him. He's certainly not in it for you or anyone else. Dream on."
Doyle was getting angry. "You don't know him at all."
"Oh yeah. Leopards do change spots do they? They're jungle animals mate, and so's your Bodie."
This was the third time, from a third man, that Doyle had heard these words, or variations of it. Forget Bodie; he's on the take; he's done a runner. Doyle fought the grain of truth that lodged itself like a bur in his brain. Hodgson saw a shadow of doubt cross Doyle's readable eyes. He pressed home.
"He's a lone wolf, and wolves turn even on their own. You're not immune, Doyle. He's walked out on better than you before. And he'll keep walking."
Doyle's anger threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted nothing more than to throttle the man on his words. But he needed information and unfortunately this seemed to be the only man of the many he'd interrogated who may have it.
"I'll ask again. When and where did you last see him?"
Hodgson saw the impotent rage. He knew that Doyle just wanted to tear him apart and knew that he couldn't - not if he wanted information. And then? Hodgson knew more than several people who could put Doyle away so that he didn't have to look over his shoulder in the future.
"The Fatted Calf in Lambeth last night. Stoned out of his brain and making a right nuisance of himself. Ask the landlord if you don't believe me. I should think they're still mopping up the mess he left behind."
Doyle railed at the smirk on Hodgson's face. How he'd love to wipe it off here and now. Instead he just turned on his heel and stormed off.
Bodie had been sent off on the trail of gun runners - those at the more shady end of the spectrum. He'd told Cowley that if he really wanted to know how the guns were getting in - and very particular guns they were too - then he would have to go it alone. Doyle would be a distraction not an asset. Cowley couldn't help but agree. Bodie may be talking to people who may recognise the agent from his police days, or simply not want to talk in front of an audience. So Bodie had left alone with a mental list of people to meet and places to go, and Doyle had yelled at Cowley - Bodie having disappeared already - that his partner needed back up; he couldn't go alone on a job. Cowley didn't back down and his agent had stormed out. As the days dragged on, Doyle reluctantly continued with his assignments but Bodie's shadow was always at his elbow by day and by sleepless night. Then it happened - inevitable, Doyle would have said. It had been a week and Cowley had never mentioned Bodie's name till now.
"Bodie's gone missing," he'd said simply.
Doyle went cold and stared at him. Eventually he'd said, "Since when?"
Cowley explained that Bodie had been reporting in at pre-set times but had missed the last two meets with CI5 agents. He'd been gone for over 24 hours. Doyle wanted nothing more than to scream, I told you so, but felt that recriminations and post mortems (no, not that word) could wait till later. He'd swallowed his fear and anger.
"So what do we do about it, then?"
Cowley'd heard the suppressed rage and respected Doyle's restraint. He'd handed over a couple of bulky files. "Read through this and pick up his trail."
"After 24 hours? A bit late for that now isn't it?" His voice was shaking as he stalked to the door, taking the files with him, and giving the door a satisfying slam.
Cowley'd looked at the door for a while. He may admit mistakes to himself but he certainly wouldn't voice them to his ministers or agents. Just find him, laddie, Cowley had thought anxiously to the door.
And so Doyle had read every word of the files at least twice, making notes as he went along, the anxiety building in him. When he was ready, he left silently. He'd been on Bodie's tail now for nearly the same amount of time he'd gone missing and he was exhausted. His interviews with the seedy gun runners and hangers-on hadn't done anything to assuage his fear nor, it seemed, had it got him any closer to Bodie's whereabouts.
Back at HQ the agents saw Doyle's mood in a moment and left him well alone. He was a danger to himself and anyone around him when he was this angry. They knew it had to do with Bodie's disappearance. He'd learnt something that had got to him. Doyle changed silently in the Mess into a tracksuit and trainers and went out into the cold rain. The few agents there exchanged glances but said nothing in Doyle's hearing. Once he'd left however, tongues loosened.
"I've seen him in better moods," Riley said quietly.
"Well, one thing's fairly sure," Murphy began. He had his audience's attention. "Bodie's probably still alive. That was anger not grief."
The agents nodded at Murphy's astuteness, but felt helpless either to find Bodie or to help his partner who was flailing in the darkness.
Doyle had jogged several miles before he felt the keen edge of his rage ebbing. He was soaked through and hadn't any clear idea of where he was, or where he could usefully go to next. He slowed down, taking in more carefully his surroundings. His subconscious had taken him to Lambeth. He knew there was no point in quizzing the pub landlord of The Fatted Calf. He'd either tell the truth, which Doyle wouldn't believe, or he'd been paid off to say nothing. But he was here now and the copper in him told him to pick up clues. Desperation had set in and logic had taken a back seat. He cautiously approached the back of the pub and looked around the detritus of the yard. He'd no idea of what he was looking for in the dark and felt foolish. A light from the toilet windows splashed across the wet tarmac, showing up the puddles and debris. Doyle looked around to ensure that he wasn't being watched and half-heartedly moved boxes and crates, trying to be as quiet as possible though there was a lot of noise coming from within. He'd have difficulty trying to explain to anyone what he was doing out here. But he whirled round when he heard someone come out of one of the back doors of the old building. Doyle slunk back into the darkness, but he wasn't quick enough. The punter had seen his shadow.
"Who's out there?" the man called cautiously.
Doyle was closer to him than the drinker had realised and, in the light from the hallway, he recognised the customer from his police days. He was an informer. Doyle had protected him more than once from gangs who thought it 'fun' to beat up gays. Doyle prised himself off the wall and declared himself.
"Its ok, Derek, it's Ray Doyle."
"Dear God. You made me all of a flutter, and now I'll really have to let myself go."
Without further preamble, Derek unzipped himself and urinated in the yard. Doyle turned away until he'd finished.
"You may be able to help me." It was a shot in the dark, but Doyle was desperate for a break and this was the right venue - if the rumour were true.
"I'm all yours sweetheart, " Derek purred, moving closer. Doyle was pressed against the wall and couldn't retreat any further.
"I'm looking for my mate, Bodie. Someone said he'd been here."
"You mean that gorgeous hunk of a man you hang around with? How you manage to keep your hands off him, I just don't know."
Doyle had wondered, in his rare encounters with Reardon, whether he put on the camp act for the 'straights'.
"Derek," Doyle pushed.
"Well, he's not here now." Doyle was about to interrupt, when his informer continued, "But if you make it worth my while, I could point you in the right direction, love. For you."
Doyle hoped that Derek wasn't talking sexual favours here, though the nark's mind rarely focussed on anything else. Doyle fished in his wallet and was glad that he'd had the foresight to bring it with him. He handed over a ten pound note.
"There's another twenty in it if you're right."
"I'll take you straight there, sweetheart. Are you in the car?"
Doyle felt at a disadvantage. He'd no ID, no gun, no car and, once he'd handed over the 'score', he'd have very little money, too.
"No, we'll have to go in yours, unless you can run to a taxi."
"Oh, I'm all yours. Follow me into the night and I'll take you to ..."
"Just get me there, Derek, and stop poncing about."
Fortunately Reardon wasn't one to take offence and they drove off, Doyle keeping an eye on the driver's hands. They often wandered. Doyle had asked where they were going, but Reardon was being vague. Doyle knew that they were heading in a north-westerly direction and they ended up at a large derelict house. A car was in the driveway - not parked, more abandoned. Derek pulled over and killed the engine.
"We have arrived, my sweet," Reardon announced as though he'd just taken Cinderella to the ball.
Doyle looked at him with great suspicion.
"This house is used for all kinds of purposes. You're too young and naïve to know what goes on here, Raymond, but this is where your young - and very dashing - man was to be found yesterday. I was here with a friend," Doyle heard the evasiveness again, "and the itinerant population which frequents this, and the neighbouring houses - all so shabby - including your boy."
Into the silence, as Doyle weighed up the property in the darkness, Reardon added. "Well, he was here yesterday. If he's not here now, then someone there may know. I'd not let on that you're one of Her Majesty's best men, though."
Doyle had a feeling that Reardon wasn't telling him everything. Why would Bodie hole up here without telling Cowley?
"Did you speak to him?"
"Oh no. He was - how can I put it without hurting you, dear?" Doyle tensed. "He wasn't himself," Reardon eventually offered diplomatically
"Drunk, concussed, what?"
"Drugs, I'd say, dear," Reardon whispered confidentially, miming the act of injecting and managing to look very sad or disappointed. With ham acting like Reardon's it was hard to tell.
Doyle went cold and wanted to break Reardon into pieces. But, Doyle said to himself, don't kick if you don't like the message. His other informers had also said that Bodie was 'stoned'. What the hell was going on?
"Right," Doyle said with more confidence than he felt, and began to get out of the car.
"Aren't we forgetting our manners, darling?"
Doyle sighed and fished for his wallet again, handing over the twenty pounds as promised. He didn't want to be indebted to a man like this. As soon as Doyle slammed the door, perhaps with more force than he'd intended, Reardon drove off - blowing a kiss to Doyle and tooting his horn as he disappeared.
Doyle felt vulnerable and very alone. No-one knew where he was, he was unarmed, and unlikely to get help from the neighbours. It wasn't a place where one would walk alone - even in the daylight. As Dole looked up at the house, he heard a window wrench open. He instinctively slunk back into the shadows.
"King of the world!" someone yelled at the top of his voice. Then a hoot of laughter.
Doyle couldn't see the man in the dark and hoped he couldn't be seen by him either. He made a circuitous route to the font door. He noticed, as he approached the building, that the car had not been abandoned but had crashed into the front bay window. The bonnet was smashed in. Doyle touched the engine but it was cold. He tried the front door of the house and it opened easily. He felt naked without his R/T or gun. He heard the sound of a tin can being kicked about and the off-key singing of a bawdy song. Doyle tried not to believe he was hearing Bodie's voice but, dear God, it did sound very like it. As Doyle worked his way slowly and very cautiously up the stairs he worked out which room the man was in. He was declaring himself 'emperor of the universe' now. Doyle reached the landing and peered into the room where the man stood. As far as Doyle could tell, there were only the two of them in the house. It was squatters' haven, so there could well be others sleeping off the effects of ... well, whatever. Doyle saw the man's silhouette against the window frame. He was still shouting to the world and brandishing either a pole of some kind or a rifle. Doyle felt that if he announced himself too suddenly, Bodie - and it was undeniable that it was Bodie - could accidentally fall out of the window or - if it was a rifle - unintentionally blow Doyle's head off.
"Bodie," Doyle said softly once there was a pause in his friend's ranting, "It's Ray Doyle." He then moved swiftly onto the landing to avoid any pot shots.
"Ray? Ray? Sounds familiar."
Doyle eased himself back into the room. "Put that down," he said quietly but firmly, "then we'll talk."
"Talk? The man wants to talk!" Bodie had taken to shouting at the moon again.
Doyle approached him and took the rod off him. It was a curtain pole, and Bodie gave little resistance.
"Did you see the merc?" Bodie asked. His speech was becoming slurred and he was beginning to sway.
The car Doyle had seen lodged in the front window was an Audi and he'd automatically registered the car number plate, too.
"A merc taking out a merc!" Bodie laughed manically at his own humour. Doyle didn't smell any alcohol on his breath, but it was clear that he'd been here - or hereabouts - for some time. He wondered who'd been feeding him drugs, and what kind they were.
"We're going home, Bodie."
As Doyle stepped forwards, Bodie stepped backwards. He was still dangerously close to the window.
"Come on Bodie. Time to go home. The Cow has been getting worried about you."
Doyle hoped that Cowley's name would ring something in Bodie's damaged mind. Bodie frowned as he tried to dredge up the memories. Doyle waited anxiously. He then told Bodie of their last assignments, omitting names in case there was anyone in the house, in an effort to get his friend to focus and remember. Bodie listened intently with a puzzled expression. He was trying very hard to think beyond the drugs. Eventually he decided that whoever this was talking at him, he was a friend and to be trusted. He nodded vaguely and found it increasingly difficult to focus either mentally or actually. He felt pressure of a hand on his arm.
"Come on, sunshine. Time to go home, eh?"
The voice was very gently and persuasive. Perhaps this man could be trusted. 'The Cow', yes that name rang bells. But the bells were too far away for Bodie to recognise them and he was so, so tired. Perhaps it was best that someone else take charge of his life for a while.
Doyle got his friend down the stairs and onto the street. What the hell did he do now? Why had he allowed Reardon to drive off and leave him stranded?
"You don't happen to have your R/T on you, do you?" Doyle asked desperately.
The all too familiar puzzled expression continued, the eyes unfocussed. Doyle sighed and frisked his mate. Miraculously the R/T was still in Bodie's inner pocket. Doyle could have cried with relief. He tested it and it seemed to still be in working order, though the battery was on its last legs. Doyle looked at his partner, who'd now sat on the wall and was giggling to himself at some internal joke. Doyle knew that there was only one other person in the world he'd allow to see Bodie in this state.
"4.5 to base. 4.5 to base."
"Ray, we were getting anxious about you."
Alex had been in the Mess Room with Murphy when Doyle had left for his run and had seen his mood.
"Can you patch me through to Cowley. Urgent."
Alex was disappointed that Ray wasn't letting him in on his nocturnal jog, but did as he was told, even though it was the early hours. There was a muffled and very sleepy "Eh?" when Doyle was put through.
"I know it's late sir, but I thought you'd want to know that I've found Bodie."
As Doyle waited for a few seconds for the Cow to come to consciousness, Doyle saw a car weave past, its owner clearly drunk or drugged, and a couple of giggly men walked by on the other side of the road, their arms around each other. Bodie got up to join them - they seemed better company than this Ray bloke - but Doyle stopped him firmly and pushed him back onto the wall
"Where are you?" Cowley asked.
"Not sure, sir." He risked leaving Bodie for a moment and jogged to the end of the street to find a name plate "Er, 17 Garland Street, NW14," he said. The address didn't mean anything to him. "Bodie's ill, sir. I'd like you to come and get us - on your own - please."
Cowley didn't understand the reason but knew that Doyle wouldn't make the request lightly. If Bodie were sick, he knew that Doyle should get an ambulance rather than waking his boss, so there had to be something else behind this.
"Stay put. I'm coming."
Doyle felt exposed out on the street and pushed Bodie into the front garden where there were bushes to hide behind. Several people had passed by and a couple had entered the building, brushing past Doyle's face without realising. Several cars had also gone by. It was an effort to keep Bodie still and quiet without resorting to violence, but after about quarter of an hour Bodie began vomiting and fitting. For God sake get here quickly, Doyle prayed to the Heavens. But it was a further 15 minutes before a familiar car slowed down. Doyle left his casualty and met an anxious Cowley as he pulled up. The Cow was puzzled that Doyle quickly got in the passenger seat. He was about to ask where Bodie was when Doyle began his story. Cowley didn't interrupt.
"I can see why you wanted Bodie kept under wraps, laddie. You did the right thing. Where is he now?"
"Second rhododendron on the left of the driveway, sir. I'll go and get him."
Cowley made a phone call while Doyle got out to find his partner. The Controller drove them to a private clinic where he assured Doyle that Bodie would get all the care he needed. They specialised in easing patients off drink and drugs. Cowley was as anxious as Doyle to know who'd been feeding Bodie dope and what kind they were. Cowley had an angry itch and it wasn't going to go away until he had the answers.