Less than half an hour later, Doyle emerged from a local fish-and-chip shop clutching two packages. Getting back into the car, he tossed one at Bodie and then began to tuck in himself. Between mouthfuls, the two agents reviewed their case between them.
"Six victims, all test subjects of a manufactured poison," Doyle began, munching his chips, "no apparent motive for the manufacture, but we know it's a long, slow death and a victim may not know he's a victim until symptoms appear, by which time the killer's had hours – maybe a day or more – to disappear."
"Victim would probably exhibit flu-like symptoms after six to eight hours," Bodie continued, recalling the medical reports, "Headaches, muscle pains, fever, etc. This steadily worsens over maybe one or two days – three at the most – before death occurs."
"We still don't have a lead as to who, or why," Doyle picked up the thread, "but we know the supplies were brought in by your friend Suzy, assisted by a couple of tramps to do the lifting and a weasel called Sammy provided transport."
"The poison is deadly. We don't have a sample of it as yet, or an antidote," Bodie added, darkly, "It could potentially wipe out large centres of population if used in the water supplies, or high-placed targets from the slightest exposure. Can be inhaled, injected or ingested."
"We know there's a lab, somewhere, where this thing was created," Doyle nodded, his expression hard, "probably at some isolated, disused farm out in the country. This thing's obviously taken a lot of time and money, so it's got some financial backing from somewhere, and the stakes are high. We need to find the farm, and find out where the supplies came from, where they were going and why, before they were intercepted by Suzy."
"Agreed," Bodie nodded, picking up a vinegar-soaked chip and chewing it slowly, "so where do we go now, professor?"
Doyle sighed and shook his head.
"Home to bed would be nice," he said, ruefully, casting a glance at the darkening sky as the streetlights came on.
"Sorry sunshine," Bodie grinned, "you're not my type."
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With little else to do before the next day, Bodie drove Doyle home and dropped him off, before heading back to his own flat. Bodie had just stepped through the front door when his R/T bleeped at him. He growled a curse at it, throwing his keys onto the coffee table as he picked up the offending object.
"What?" he snarled into it.
"Bodie," the terse voice of Cowley made Bodie close his eyes and curse quietly but colourfully under his breath, "listen. We've got a lead on the lab. You and Doyle were right – there are two abandoned farm houses within the search radius you gave. We've dismissed one as it's in the process of being demolished to make way for a village bypass. The other one looks good – It's called Moat Farm. It was purchased 3 months ago for 'development purposes' by a Mr Harold Knight. Have you got that?"
"Yes sir," Bodie tried to inject a little enthusiasm into his voice, without that much real enthusiasm.
It had been a long shift, and spending last night on a couch at CI5 HQ had done little for him in the way of real sleep and he was starting to feel the effects. He listened as Cowley reeled off the address.
"Shall I pick up 4-5 on the way?" he asked, referring to Doyle by his operative number.
"Doyle's already on his way," Cowley replied, "So are Hogan and Webster. They'll be meeting you there. I've got to go and meet with the minister. Your orders are to surround the farm, investigate, and report to me directly. If it is the lab, I want informants and I want them taken alive, Bodie. Alive! Is that understood?"
"Understood, sir," Bodie replied.
He was already reaching for his keys again, and heading for the front door.
"Good; Alpha-Charlie out."
Bodie sighed, clicked off the R/T, and amused himself by swearing eloquently and at length all the way from his front door and back to his car. Gunning the engine and, to the eternal chagrin of his neighbours, Bodie stamped down hard on the accelerator and the car squealed out onto the streets, roaring away into the darkening night.
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As it happened, Doyle was not quite on his way. When he'd received the call from Cowley, he'd gone out to his garage with the intention of using his bike to get out to Moat Farm – a much faster mode of transport than the car, particularly through busy London streets, and he wasn't about to miss the opportunity to really open up the throttle down some quiet country roads, even if it was starting to get dark already. So, he'd pulled gloves and helmet out of his cupboard and headed down to the garage, only to find a man apparently trying to break in through the padlock.
"Hey!" Doyle yelled, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The man whipped around, and Doyle caught sight of non-descript jeans, grey tee-shirt, and a faded black leather jacket. He lunged forward, making a grab at the man. The man – dark hair, dark eyes – actually stepped forward to meet the attack, which momentarily surprised Doyle, as most burglars, if interrupted, would try to make a run for it, not stand their ground. The man lashed out with a fast punch that took Doyle just under his ribs. Doyle gasped at the unexpected sharp pain accompanying the punch, but sucked in a deep breath and lashed out, hard. The blow caught the man's jaw and spun him around, and sent him sprawling. However, he recovered quickly, got to his feet, and scrambled a dash out of the yard. Doyle made to follow, albeit winded from the punch, but remembered that he had more pressing matters to attend to than a potential bike thief. Opening the garage door, he beheld his beloved bike, before pulling on his helmet and gloves. Snapping down the visor and revving the engine, Doyle relaxed into a low seated position and peeled out into traffic, the pleasure of the ride marred only slightly by a nagging ache in his ribs.
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Gasping, his head reeling from the savage punch to the jaw, Karl staggered out of the yard. He'd just made it into his car when he saw Doyle's bike come out of the yard and pull away into traffic. He swore, fumbled for his keys, revved up the engine and began to follow. Rubbing his jaw, the skin already feeling hot and tight with an emerging bruise, Karl cast his eyes down at the object he'd discarded on the seat next to him when he'd climbed into his vehicle. The empty syringe lay there, almost innocently, and Karl swore at it. He'd expected retaliation, but the force of the punch had surprised even him, a veteran of many brawls. He followed the bike for about half an hour, before he knew without a shadow of a doubt where Doyle was going. This time, he let forth a string of curses that would have made a hardened marine blush. The speed with which CI5 had located Moat Farm both surprised and angered him. He knew they were good, but they must be clairvoyant to have found the place so fast! Karl allowed Doyle to disappear into the distance, the bike much faster and much more manoeuvrable than his car. He cruised down the high street before he located a telephone booth. Pulling up next to it, he got out, slamming the car door somewhat harder than necessary. He quickly rang a number he rarely used but had committed to memory.
"It's Karl," he said, quickly, to the voice that answered, "I think you'll have company this evening. Prepare yourself. CI5! Who else? They spoke to that woman at the docks and the guy who did the driving. I said at the time I should have taken care of them! Yes. Yes. Okay. I'll do it tonight. They'll be with you in less than an hour. Okay. Yes. I understand."
The conversation over, Karl put the 'phone down and stepped out of the booth. He glanced around; as night drew in, the roads were growing quieter, and it was getting colder. October was soon to give way to November, and it promised to be a cold one. Karl zipped up his jacket, and got back into his car. Pressing his foot down on the accelerator, he turned the car in a perfect U-turn and took off into the night.
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Doyle switched off the headlamp of his bike, slowing down to minimum speed as he crept along the road up to the recently-purchased Moat Farm. It was a long, muddy, dirt track, edged in by fairly thick woodland on either side. The grounds of the farm were clearly expansive and therefore expensive. Mr Harold Knight must have a lot of capital behind him to afford a place like this. Doyle killed the engine on the bike and took the keys from the ignition, dropping them into his jacket pocket as he slid out of the seat and pushed the bike along next to him. Taking off his helmet and hooking it over one of the handgrips, he pushed the bike along the dark road, his only light coming from the full moon overhead.
The night sky was cloudless, affording him some light, but making the night extremely cold. Doyle's breath clouded in front of him as he walked, his footsteps and the tread of the bike muffled in the damp, muddy ground. Eventually, he sighted light in the distance, and could just about make out the silhouette of a modestly-sized farmhouse. There were lights in the windows, though Doyle could see little else. He eased his bike off the track, turned it around in case of the need for a quick escape, and concealed it in the shadows of the trees. Easing off his gloves, he shoved them into his pockets. Flexing his fingers against the cold night air, he took his R/T from his pocket.
"4-5 to 3-7."
There was a long pause, and then Bodie's voice answered; "3-7. Go ahead, Doyle."
"I'm at the farmhouse already. Some signs of life but I've not been up close yet. What's your ETA?"
"I'll be with you in about ten minutes. Any sign of Webster and Hogan?"
"Negative," Doyle replied, his eyes scanning the trees, "not yet, at any rate. See you in a bit, mate; 4-5 out."
He dropped the R/T back into his pocket, and absently rubbed his bruised ribs ruefully, still unable to believe that anyone would have the audacity to try to break into his shed. Maybe the bloke had caught sight of the bike at some point… Doyle shook his tousled head, patting the bike almost affectionately. His garage had more alarms and sensors attached to it than most mansions, thanks to CI5. He drew his gun and checked it, before sliding off the safety. He'd seen no sign of any patrols on his approach, but that did not mean that he could be lax.
Within ten minutes, he'd covered quite a perimeter, coming back to the dirt track just in time to see Bodie's car pull up further down from where he'd parked his bike, lights off, out of sight of the house. Behind him, a dark coloured Rover pulled up to park as noiselessly as possible. Bodie came forwards and greeted his partner, his smirk almost audible in the dark.
"Having fun, sunshine?" he grinned.
"More than you'd think," Doyle grimaced, one hand going to his bruised ribs, "believe it or not I caught some bloke trying to break into my garage tonight."
"He wasn't after that hunk of junk you call a bike, was he?"
Doyle gave Bodie a friendly shove.
"Hey – that hunk of junk got me here a damn sight faster than you did."
Together, they strolled up the path to meet Hogan and Webster.
"You two go around the back," Bodie ordered, "Doyle and I will take the front. It's a simple enough recon – we think our lab could be here but it could have just been a swap-over point. Neither of our sources on this was particularly reliable."
"It's more than we got," Webster admitted, "got the report back from the lab, though. They've got a sample of the poison from the smashed syringe we collected at the warehouse where the last two victims were found. At the moment it defies analysis, but the lab's trying to synthesise an antidote."
"At the moment I'm more interested in catching the guys who made the damned thing," Bodie replied, dismissively, "right, let's go. Keep in touch, kids!"
Hogan growled something inaudible under her breath at the comment, as she and Webster dropped down low and skirted off around to the back of the house.
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"How shall we play it?" Doyle asked, staring down the path at the farmhouse.
"Nice and quiet to begin with," Bodie replied.
Half-crouching, they sprinted across the yard, weapons in hand. Bodie came up next to the window, and Doyle took up position next to the front door. Bodie took out his R/T and opened a channel.
"3-7 to all units," he whispered, "front living room, two occupants. Elderly couple, from the looks of it – any other signs of life?"
"6-9 here," said Hogan's voice, laden with amusement, "Webster's made friends with the family dog – an old German Shepherd. Other than that it's quiet as the grave out here."
"Acknowledged, 6-9," Doyle said, into his R/T, "you and 7-3 stay in position. I'm going to try the front door. Direct approach – I'll leave the R/T open, so maintain radio silence."
"Acknowledged, 4-5 - 6-9 out," Hogan replied.
Doyle nodded to Bodie, who nodded back and melted back into the shadows, watching as Doyle stepped up to the front door. A porch light came on, dazzlingly bright, and Doyle squinted in the sudden brightness. Quickly holstering his gun, his adopted a casual air and rang the door bell. There was a fumbling noise from within, before a lock clicked and the door opened barely an inch, held back by a security chain. An eye appeared at the gap, about level with Doyle's shoulder, and it looked him up and down balefully.
"Hello?" said a voice, probably belonging to the owner of the eye, "Can I help you, young man?"
"Err, yeah, please," Doyle said, "my bike broke down just up the road. Can I use your phone, please?"
The door did not budge.
"Do you know what time it is?" said the elderly-sounding voice, querulously, "it's nearly 11 o'clock. What are you doing about this time of night?"
"I was on my way to work," Doyle replied, smoothly, rubbing his hand across his face casually, "I'm a security guard."
The eye regarded him suspiciously for a moment. The door closed, there was a click, and the door opened again, fully this time, revealing a hunched old man, probably Harold Knight, dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown and nursing a glass of scotch, no doubt a nightcap before bed.
"The phone's in the hall," the old man pointed, somewhat grumpily, "no funny business – or I'll give you such a wallop with this poker…"
The old man feebly waved the implement at Doyle, who simply smiled and nodded. He picked up the phone, and dialled his own home number. He waited a few rings, and then hung up.
"My mate's not answering," he said, in a tone of genuine regret, "mind, he won't be back from work for about twenty minutes yet."
"Your friend works late," the old man said, suspiciously.
"He's a security guard as well," Doyle replied, with a casual shrug, "we work odd shifts."
Still less than reassured, the old man waved the poker a bit aimlessly, apparently less than happy with having this stranger in his house. Doyle smiled reassuringly, and pointed upstairs.
"Mind if I use the loo?" he asked, "Then I'll try my mate again. If he doesn't answer, I'll just leave, okay?"
The old man considered this, eyeing the stairs. Finally, he relented.
"Okay," he nodded, "straight up, first door on the left. I'll be watching where you go – you so much as go sniffing around my wife's jewellery and I'll call the police!"
Doyle smiled to himself as he jogged up the stairs. Entering the bathroom, he waited a few moments, before flushing the toilet and pulling out his R/T.
"3-7, did you get all that?" he asked.
"Sure did," Bodie sounded amused, "are you sure this is the right place?"
"It's the only place for miles," Doyle replied, "certainly the only Moat Farm. No sign of a lab here – not unless it's very cleverly hidden. I'm on my way out – 4-5 out."
Jogging back down the stairs, Doyle went through the motions of making a phone call, and then hung up with a shrug. The old man shook the poker at him, and Doyle laughed.
"Okay, mate, I'm going," he said, holding his hands up, "maybe I can get the bike started again on my own. Thanks for the use of the phone."
The old man grunted something, and Doyle backed out of the front door. The door slammed shut, and there was a rattle of the security chain and the click of a deadbolt. Doyle made a show of walking away down the driveway, almost able to feel the old man's eyes boring into his back from the living room window. He kept a steady pace until he was out of sight and around the corner, before he dropped into the undergrowth and doubled back on himself at a jog, coming up beside Bodie, positioned at the side of the window.
"Seen anything interesting?" Doyle asked, in a low voice.
"Something's not right," Bodie murmured, "Can't quite put my finger on it, though. No sign of a lab in there, then?"
"Didn't get much of a chance to look around," Doyle shrugged, "but there's nothing immediately obvious."
"We'll wait around a while," Bodie suggested, "wait until they go to bed, then go in and take a look around."
"Agreed," Doyle nodded.
Bodie communicated his order to stay put to Webster, who acknowledged it grimly. The night was cold, and ice was already starting to form on the ground. With November less than a week away, winter was coming in early. A chilly breeze stirred the trees as the moon lit the area weakly, casting long shadows that seemed to emphasise the icy night. Time dragged by, the silence broken only by the distant call of a tawny owl and the rustle of small animals in the undergrowth. Doyle shivered, muscles cramped from crouching so still for so long. An hour and a half crawled by, before the downstairs light went off and another came on upstairs. Eventually, this too went out, and the sudden darkness made it feel several degrees colder. Bodie checked his watch. He waited until exactly 2am, and then gave the signal to move in, ordering Hogan and Webster to stay in position while he and Doyle entered the farmhouse.
"I don't suppose you lifted the keys to the door, did you?" Bodie asked, wryly, as he stared at the door.
"Not much chance, mate," Doyle whispered back, "wouldn't try the front door – the security chain will make too much noise."
"Well I can't exactly break a window," Bodie hissed.
"Who said anything about breaking it?" Doyle asked.
He ran his hands across the window to the front room, and found one that wasn't properly latched. Taking a small penknife from his pocket, he opened the blade, fitting it between the edge of the window and its frame, carefully levering it upwards until the latch lifted, and Doyle was able to swing the window open. Bodie raised one eyebrow, and in the darkness made and 'after you' gesture. Doyle placed his hands on the sill, and climbed into the room as quietly as possible. It was warm inside compared to the chill outside; the embers of a fire still smouldered in a grate behind a mesh fireguard. Bodie followed, and the two of them moved silently through the room. Exiting into the hallway, they worked their way around the ground floor. The search revealed very little; only a tidy kitchen, dining room and study, where, despite a thorough search of the paperwork, they found nothing of interest.
"I don't think this is our lab," Bodie whispered, at last.
"We haven't checked upstairs yet," Doyle pointed out, "and there're always the cellars – and the outbuildings."
"3-7 to 6-9 and 7-3," Bodie hissed, "do me a favour and go check around any garages and sheds – we've turned up nothing in here yet."
"6-9, will do – out."
Dropping the R/T into his jacket pocket, Bodie went into the kitchen, where they'd found a door that led down to the cellar of the old house. He tried the latch, and found it firmly locked. He shared a grim look with Doyle in the dimness of the kitchen, and took a pick-lock from his pocket. Applying it quickly, he heard the lock slide back smoothly. Trying the latch again, Bodie was surprised to find the door still refused to budge. He soon realised why.
"It's bolted – from the other side!" he hissed.
Doyle placed his hand on the door thoughtfully.
"Odd," he frowned, "there must be someone down there…"
He leaned against the door, listening hard, but was unable to distinguish any sounds. Bodie tapped his arm, and signalled for withdrawal. Quickly and quietly, the two of them went back out through the living-room window, Doyle carefully pushing it closed behind them. They dropped back behind the shrubbery, shivering in the freezing cold temperature.
"We need to get a look in those cellars," Bodie said, grimly.
"Not without making a hell of a lot of noise we're not," Doyle replied, and picked up his R/T, "4-5 to 7-3 – anything to report?"
"Negative, 4-5," Webster replied, efficiently, "all of the outbuildings are empty – an old stable, a garage and a garden shed are all that's out here. Did you guys find much?"
"Only a door locked from the wrong side," Doyle replied, "hold your position and await further instructions – 4-5 out."
He glanced at Bodie, who was already on the radio to control, talking to Cowley, who, it seemed, slept even less than his agents did.
"Stay there, Bodie," Cowley ordered, "I want that farmhouse monitored. You four are on observation only tonight – you'll be relieved in the morning; Alpha out."
"Thanks," Bodie muttered, as the channel went dead.
He relayed the good news to Hogan and Webster, who quite cheerfully decided that they could set themselves up in the sheltered stable with a good view of the kitchen, leaving Bodie and Doyle to cover the front. Retreating away from the house, the two of them took shelter in the tree line and settled in for the night.
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Doyle yawned and sighed as he gazed at the farmhouse. He was chilled to the bone, numb to the point of pain. Dawn was just starting to break over the horizon, and the sky was turning a strange grey colour. During the night, Bodie had gone to move his car out onto the main road, well out of sight of the farmhouse, and had returned with a couple of blankets and a pair of binoculars from the boot. The blankets were of little use in the freezing temperatures, but Doyle pulled his closer as he peered at the farmhouse. Still there was no sign of life. He sighed again, and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. His head was aching and he felt tired beyond belief. Next to him, Bodie was sitting upright against a tree, dozing fitfully, shivering in his blanket. Suddenly, the crunch of approaching footsteps on the frozen leaf-litter made Doyle whip around, as he reached for his gun. However, he relaxed as soon as he recognised Murphy and Collins approaching, grinning cheerfully, carrying a large rucksack each.
"Morning, Doyle," Murphy grinned, dropping down next to him, "Blimey, mate – you look terrible."
"It's bloody freezing out here, that's why," Doyle replied, with a slight growl, "Thank God you're here. Now I can go home to a hot shower and some sleep!"
"Not so, old boy," Collins replied, too cheerfully for Doyle's liking, "Cowley's out on the main road. He wants a word with you two."
Doyle grumbled a curse, as he reached over and shook Bodie awake.
"Come on," he grunted, "The Cow wants us."
"It's nice to feel wanted," Bodie yawned, glancing around blearily with red-rimmed eyes, "has he got any coffee?"
"There's one way to find out," Doyle replied.
Saying their goodbyes to Collins and Murphy, Bodie and Doyle headed out onto the main road. Doyle retrieved his bike from the bush he'd concealed it behind, pushing it along as he walked beside Bodie. He was dog-tired, utterly beat, with and aching head and muscles sore from a night spent in the icy outdoors and from lack of sleep over the last two nights. Bodie did not look any happier. They came out onto the main road, where Cowley waited for them next to his car.
"Good morning," their boss said, eyeing them with something almost akin to amusement, "anything to report?"
"It got bloody cold last night, sir," Bodie replied, a slight edge in his voice.
"I bet it did," Cowley nodded.
He produced a flask from behind his back, and Bodie suddenly looked hopeful. Cowley's driver, Paula, produced a couple of plastic mugs, and poured the two agents a hot drink. Doyle accepted his, wrapping his hand appreciatively around the warm mug. He shivered, and sipped at the hot coffee, savouring the warmth.
"Nothing really to report, sir," Bodie said, at length, "there's an old couple occupying the farmhouse but it could be just a front. The cellar door is locked from the inside – either the old man's very good at magic tricks, or someone's down there who doesn't want to be disturbed."
"We'll keep an eye on the house," Cowley nodded, "Meanwhile; I've got some bad news for you. Someone may have found out about your sources."
Bodie's head snapped up; suddenly alert. Doyle cocked his head to one side, regarding his chief warily.
"The local police were called to a disturbance at Sammy Brooke's apartment last night," Cowley informed them, "neighbours reported hearing a scream and a gunshot. He's dead – all the hallmarks of a professional hit, from the sounds of things."
"What about Suzy?" Bodie asked, with an edge of concern in his voice.
"No reports as yet, but I think you should check it out," Cowley replied, his tone hard.
Doyle opened his mouth to protest, caught the look on Bodie's face, and decided against it. His partner was clearly worried about his attractive blonde informant, and Doyle suppressed another yawn. He swallowed another mouthful of coffee, and winced, his throat sore – probably from the cold. Reluctantly throwing off the blanket, he shivered again, pulling on his gloves as he reached for his helmet.
"I'll meet you at the dockyards," he suggested, tiredly.
Bodie nodded wordlessly, already heading for his car. Cowley spared Doyle a glance.
"Don't worry 4-5; there'll be plenty of time for sleep later."
Doyle managed a tired half-smile in reply, as he pulled on his helmet. Getting stiffly into the saddle of his bike, he revved up the engine, kicked off, and sped away up the road. Cowley watched as Bodie's car followed at a similar pace, before he climbed back into his car.
"Back to HQ," he told Paula, "I want to keep an eye on things from there. Let's go!"
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It would have been no consolation to Bodie and Doyle to know that Karl Fulham was just as cold and tired as they were. However, Karl was secure in the knowledge of a job well done. He found a 'phone booth, and called his employers.
"The job's done. Yes. No, it won't be traced – I don't leave clues. No, no trace. Look, you hired me because I've never been caught – no record, not even a parking ticket, okay? I'm careful. They won't catch me. I'm ready to make the first hit, but there's a problem – I need more of the stuff. I can't go to the farmhouse – it's probably being watched. That's not my problem – I'm not coming all the way out to you in that bloody manor house! Fine…fine!"
Slamming the 'phone down, he left the booth and glanced around. It was still very early, although people were already out and about on their way to work. Karl got into his car, now a blue Fiesta, and cruised off down the street. His work was done for now – let CI5 exhaust themselves running around ragged for a while. He was off home to shower, shave and sleep.