Chapter 4

His darkest look and a flash of his ID were enough to frighten away the late-shift traffic warden as Bodie left the Capri on the double-yellows outside the dry cleaners. He stared down the long, straight road ahead of him, his eyebrows drawn down and his lips pressed tightly together.

Think, man. Think.

No more than five minutes had elapsed from the time that Doyle had tailed the girl around this corner to when Bodie followed in the car. Five minutes for his partner to vanish utterly. The nearest side turnings were some distance away – too far for them to have reached.

It had happened an hour ago, just before 6.00pm – some of the shops had still been open. Had they gone into one of them? Bodie dismissed the idea impatiently. Something had happened to Doyle – and there was no way he went down without a fight. If they'd gone into a shop someone would have seen them, reported the disturbance. With a last admonitory glare at the hovering traffic warden, Bodie set off down the road, every sense on high alert.

After about fifty yards he saw the concrete steps, leading up a narrow space between two shops. Bodie glanced upwards, saw the flats built two stories above him, the open walkway that ran in front of them. He took the steps two at a time, hopping over a short length of scaffolding pole abandoned on the half-landing. Part way up the next flight, he suddenly stopped. He'd seen something. Something familiar – so familiar, in fact, that he'd immediately dismissed it. He turned slowly, his eyes raking every inch of the bare brickwork, the concrete, the paint-peeled metal handrail – what could he possibly have seen?

Back on the half-landing, litter had clustered in the corners – dead leaves mingled with crisp packets. He stirred it with the toe of his smart Italian loafer, and there it was – just a bit of grey plastic casing, a moulded right-angle that had clearly broken off something. Bodie picked it up and examined it, fishing his RT out of his pocket and holding them side by side.

Snap.

Doyle had been here – and whatever happened on this stairwell had smashed his RT. Crouching down, Bodie's sharp eyes combed the landing for any further clues, taking in the rubbish, the flecks of mica in the concrete, the incongruous scaffolding pole with a smear of rust-coloured paint on one end.

No. Not paint. Blood.

"Three seven to base," he barked into his RT, "I need a forensic team here now." He gave them his location as he trotted back down the stairs onto the pavement, spotted the traffic warden and urgently beckoned him over. "This is a crime scene. Forensics are on their way – stand there and wait for them. No-one goes up here apart from them. Got that?"

The man looked startled by this sudden alteration in his duties, but nodded and stationed himself at the foot of the stairs. Bodie headed back upwards, trying not to disturb anything, careful not to brush against the handrail. As he passed the half-landing again he had a fleeting and unwelcome image of that heavy metal pole being used in anger on his partner's body. Shaking his head impatiently he dismissed the thought as he reached the top and emerged onto the walkway.

In front of him was a brick balustrade overlooking the road he had just left; stretching away on either side were the flats, which had all seen better days. Many of the windows were boarded up; even the graffiti was faded and tired. Eyes narrowed, Bodie looked left and right, thinking hard.

Had the girl realised that she was being followed? Bodie promised himself he'd berate Doyle for that if – when – he got the chance. But she was slight, petite – no more than five foot three. Even with a scaffolding pole and the element of surprise there was no way she'd taken Doyle out on her own. He leaned forward over the balustrade, saw the top of the traffic warden's cap below. Maybe someone had been standing here, watching out for her, seen Doyle follow her up the stairs. If so, they must be based nearby – presumably in one of these flats.

That was far too many 'if's and 'maybe's for his liking, but it was the best he had. Which way first, right or left? He looked along the walkway, studying the flats. One bore the remnants of some scaffolding. Left, then.

Doyle stood in the hallway outside the bathroom, listening intently. Ahead of him, stairs stretched invitingly downwards, but the bare and uneven floorboards did not bode well for a quiet descent. The other man – Jacobs, Holly said he called himself – had to be on the floor below; Kendal had died mercifully quietly but if anyone had been upstairs they would undoubtedly have heard the scuffle. Doyle glanced back at the blood-soaked girl, saw the gibbering chaos in her eyes that she was just managing to keep in check. She nodded, and together they crept forward.

The first stair took his weight without a sound, and the second. He placed his feet carefully, trying to choose spots that looked properly nailed down, aware of Holly marking his footsteps behind him. The fourth tread creaked a little, and he froze, wondering if they should retreat: the stairwell was dead straight and they were sitting ducks if anyone armed appeared at the bottom. No sounds of movement reached him so he resumed the descent, reaching the half-way point, Kendal's wire cutters held out in front of him like a talisman.

"May I help you with something?" Jacobs enquired politely, stepping into view at the foot of the stairs, a silenced automatic held steadily in his hand. "It's most discourteous of you to leave without saying goodbye. In fact," he raised the gun, pointing it directly at Doyle's head, "I really don't think I can tolerate such ill manners."

With all his strength Doyle threw the wire cutters at Jacobs and flung himself backwards, trying to cover Holly as they scrambled back up the stairs. A bullet buried itself in the plaster inches from his ear and he knew the next one would find its mark.

An almighty crash from below him was followed by three gunshots in under a second. Jacobs, a look of mild surprise on his face, was sliding down the wall leaving a long, red streak on the wallpaper. A smart, Italian loafer kicked the automatic away, and Bodie appeared, gun still held in both hands in front of him. He looked up the stairwell and his eyes widened in shock at the state of his partner.

Doyle's teeth showed whitely as he grinned from behind a bloody mask. "Don't panic, sunshine. Hardly any of this is mine..."

Bodie's shoulders sagged just slightly in relief.

"I think we'd better hose you two down before we go anywhere – there's a traffic warden downstairs who's of a very sensitive disposition."

"I'll pass that on, Alpha-1. Three seven out." As Doyle and Holly emerged from the kitchen, looking marginally less like extras from the Hammer House of Gore, Bodie pocketed his RT and regarded them with the glint of devilment back in his eye.

"Warm messages of concern from the boss?" Doyle enquired, with the merest suggestion of irony.

"Absolutely. Under the circumstances, he said he won't have you billed for a new RT. And Holly – he'd like to know if you're free tomorrow to look at that computer problem...?"

- The End -