Night-time brought no relief from the searing daytime temperatures. Bodie lay on top of the sheets of his bed, clad only in a pair of shorts, the electric fan an annoying background buzz but a welcome breeze in the stuffy bedroom. He was torn between switching it off to try to sleep, or continue lying there in the breeze with the annoying drone in the background. He decided on the latter, and was nonetheless just starting to doze off when the bedside 'phone rang with a shrill cry.
"Shit," Bodie grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he lifted the receiver.
"Bodie," he mumbled into it.
He listened carefully, and then, in a steady tone, gave his reply.
"Acknowledged, Control – I'm on my way."
Bodie pulled on tan trousers, black trainers and a black tee-shirt. He strapped on his shoulder holster and threw on a lightweight, short-sleeved black shirt to hide the weapon from immediate sight. Grabbing his car keys, he left the flat quickly, leapt into his car, and peeled it away from the curb.
**CI5**
Bodie arrived at the scene – the address given by Control over the 'phone – to find that Doyle was already there, along with George Cowley. Cowley spared Bodie little more than a glance as the dark-haired agent approached.
"Another one," Bodie said, bluntly, "who is he?"
"DCI Jim Weston," Doyle replied, grimly, "CID. The poor bastard didn't stand much of a chance."
Bodie nodded in agreement. They were in an underground car-park beneath a hotel that had been closed down for fumigation. The body of what had once been Jim Weston lay in a pool of blood – glittering in the light of a multitude of torches; a knife lay nearby, smeared in red gore.
"It looks like he was jumped from behind," Bodie noted, kneeling down while being careful to avoid the copious amounts of blood, "his throat's been cut. Most of these wounds were post-mortem…"
Around him, several police officers shifted in varying degrees of revulsion and anger. It was a grim day for the Met, and it promised to be a long shift.
"Two cops in one day," Doyle sighed, "This must be related…"
"You'll need to check," Cowley replied, his tone clear, "I want this scene scoured by forensics, and I want you two on the paper trail. Check every case Weston was working on. Cross check that with the file on young Morris. Check everything!"
"Yes, sir," Bodie replied, his expression dark as he got to his feet.
Cowley turned away as the wail of an ambulance siren heralded the arrival of a coroner to attend a dead cop for the second time that day. Having checked the scene and confirmed that there were no witnesses and little else to be learned from hanging around, Bodie and Doyle headed for their cars and both sped off into the night, leaving a very sorry scene behind them.
**CI5**
The next morning, all of the newspapers were splashed with headlines about the killings of two policemen. Some of the papers speculated that there might be a link but without any evidence it was a flimsy story based on guesswork and concocted stories designed to sell the papers. Doyle and Bodie had spent the night feeding information into the computer and reading through old files brought over in a van from the Met archives. They had little to show from it aside from a five o'clock shadow, red-rimmed eyes and a much depleted jar of instant coffee. They reported to Cowley at 9am promptly.
"Weston wasn't working on any cases," Doyle reported, waving a file and dropping it amongst the many others on Cowley's desk, "he was only two weeks away from retirement and was spending it behind a desk. He was only in the underground car park because that was where he kept his car during the day while he was at the office only five minute's walk away. It looks like someone was waiting for him."
"There are no links between Morris and Weston as yet – not even through Morris senior," Bodie added, "if there is any connection, it's pretty tenuous – they were all three on the force. Morris senior would have been Weston's superior for a while but it doesn't look like they worked on any cases together. Morris junior's arrest record was pretty good given he was a rookie, but it's mainly busts for possession and prostitution; the occasional assault, nothing serious. He had his eyes set on a career with CID, but he just hadn't been around long enough to make any real enemies."
"His dad, on the other hand," Doyle picked up, "had an arrest record that reads like a book. Involved in breaking two or three big crime rings including one about seven years ago involving the import of girls from Asia and Africa to work the sex industry – human trafficking."
"Aye, I think I remember the case," Cowley nodded, slowly, "go on."
"It was his last major operation before he retired," Doyle continued, "he died two years ago from cancer. We checked Weston's records but he wasn't involved in the bust. His only link was to arrest a couple of pimps for assault who were eventually called to give evidence at the trial."
"The guy who took the fall for the whole thing was Harvey Davis," Bodie spoke up, "went down protesting that he'd been framed for the whole thing but he was guilty as sin. He later signed a confession in jail to earn a shorter sentence. He turned queen's evidence on a number of former associates who would have gotten away free if not for him. He also fingered some drug runners and arms dealers which made him unpopular – he got knifed in the prison kitchens about three years ago. He died from the wounds. No surviving relatives or associates we know of who'd carry a grudge this far. The computer's just tracking down the last known whereabouts of all the people Harvey grassed on, along with their nearest and dearest."
"Good," Cowley nodded, glancing through a file, "what about the forensic evidence?"
"The bullets extracted from Morris match the gun we found," Bodie replied, "no surprises there. There were no fingerprints on the gun – our shooter used gloves. One thing our guys did find on it was traces of sawdust."
"Sawdust?" Cowley repeated, glancing up, "the gun was new?"
"Straight from the factory," Bodie nodded, grimly, "part of a batch stolen at source. We matched the serial number to a weapon reported as stolen. A flat-broke employee flogged a batch and tried to hide it in the paperwork. He got caught, but we never found the buyer. Several weapons from the cache had been turning up for the past couple of months… our guy definitely bought this black market, so we know he's got some contacts."
"So have we," Cowley replied, darkly, "get talking to them. Anything else?"
"No fingerprints on the knife that killed Weston," Doyle answered, "it was a bog-standard kitchen knife; nothing unique or identifiable. Coroner's report comments on the attack as being 'controlled frenzy' – a quick slit of the throat, multiple stab wounds inflicted post-mortem."
Cowley's face twisted into a half-scowl as he scan-read the report. He glanced up quickly.
"Why are you two still here?" he demanded, "Get out there and start talking to people. Someone out there knows why two cops are dead and I want to know as well. Get to it!"
Doyle shared a knowing look with Bodie as the two of them mumbled their obedience and left the room quickly.
**CI5**
"Any ideas?" Doyle asked, as they strode casually through the corridors of CI5.
"I've got a pretty good idea of where to start with the rifle," Bodie replied, "there aren't many people in the city who'd have the contacts and the cash to buy and sell a case of Armalite rifles…"
Doyle nodded in agreement as he headed for the lift. Together, they headed down to the underground car park towards Bodie's Capri. As they climbed into the car, the radio inside started beeping and, with an exasperated sigh, Doyle snatched it up.
"4-5," he answered it.
"4-5 this is Control," replied a female voice, "reports coming in of a tip-off on your case. A warehouse at the following address… uniformed officers already there to meet you."
"On our way," Doyle replied crisply.
Control relayed the address, as the Capri peeled out of the car park with a squeal of tyres. Doyle snatched up the A to Z and called out directions as Bodie swerved in and out of traffic. In record time, the Capri pulled into an overgrown yard in the middle of an industrial estate, where a ramshackle wooden warehouse sat wilting in the heat of the day.
"When's this damned heat wave going to break?" Bodie grumbled, getting out of the car, "Bloody hell, it's hot…"
Doyle took off his sunglasses as the two of them stared at the building, assessing it silently. A Ford Escort with police markings sat nearby, empty of occupants.
"I suppose we should go and check it out," Bodie said, at length.
"After you," Doyle gestured.
Bodie stepped forwards, crossing over to the door. He drew his gun, and leaned around the corner. The interior was dark, slightly dank, and much cooler than the sun-soaked yard, albeit musty-smelling. Bodie slipped inside, as Doyle followed. The two of them flitted silently through the shadows cast by stacked up crates and large, unidentifiable machines that were covered with tarpaulins. They searched the building thoroughly but found nothing of interest. More worryingly, there was no sign of the uniformed officers who had apparently arrived before them.
"Must have been a prank," Doyle said, eventually, holstering his gun, disgust evident in his tone, "this is a waste of time."
"Agreed," Bodie nodded, similarly holstering his weapon.
He wandered forward aimlessly, and then raised his voice; "Hello? Anyone there? CI5!"
There was no reply. Bodie glanced over his shoulder at Doyle, who simply shrugged. Together, they walked out of the warehouse and back into the bright, hot sunshine. The Panda car still sat there, engine still and lights off.
"Where the hell could they have gone?" Bodie asked, glancing around.
"We'd better check," Doyle replied.
A quick sweep of the area revealed nothing. Eventually, hot and thirsty, the two agents came back to the yard. The car was still there. Bodie took his R/T from his pocket.
"3-7 to Control; come in."
"Control here, go ahead."
"The tip off was a duff," Bodie growled, "and the two uniforms you sent have disappeared. Can you raise them?"
There was a long moment of silence.
"No response on any frequency," Control reported back, primly, "local depot similarly reports no check in from either officer – request you investigate; over."
"Shit," Doyle said, bluntly, "this is starting to smell like a set up."
"The car?" Bodie raised an eyebrow.
"The car," Doyle concurred.
**CI5**
The two of them slowly crept towards the vehicle, suddenly on their guard. They inspected it from every angle, hunting for any signs of tampering, any wires or other hint that the car may be rigged with an unpleasant surprise. Eventually, Doyle straightened up.
"Anything?" he asked.
"Nothing," Bodie replied, "how about the boot?"
Doyle nodded, and walked around to the back of the car. He gently explored the boot catch with his fingertips, but could not feel anything unusual. Giving the catch a gentle squeeze, he found that the boot was already open. The latch clicked and he froze, but nothing untoward occurred so he slowly eased the boot open.
"Oh, hell," he muttered, "Bodie! We need an ambulance!"
"I'm on it," Bodie confirmed, already pulling out his radio.
Doyle reached into the boot space and quickly untied the gag from around the young police officer's mouth. He was a young man, early twenties, with dark hair and a thin face. There was a trickle of blood from a deep cut to the temple, which had matted his hair and stained the collar of his blue shirt. Doyle gently reached in and lifted the young man out, laying him down on the cobbled yard. The young man stirred, and groaned. Doyle gave his name badge a quick glance.
"Harrison?" he called, "Come on, mate, wake up."
The young officer, Harrison, groaned again, and forced his eyes open. Doyle spared him a sympathetic smile.
"You're going to be fine," he promised, "I'm Doyle, he's Bodie. We're with CI5. Who did this to you?"
"Didn't see him," Harrison groaned, raising one hand to his head, "he jumped me from behind pretty much as soon as I got out the car… where's Lincoln?"
"Lincoln?" Doyle repeated; the name was vaguely familiar…
"Alan Lincoln," Harrison replied, "he's… he's my partner?"
"We haven't seen him," Bodie replied, grimly, also crouching down next to the stunned officer, "there's an ambulance on the way. Can you tell us anything?"
"Ah…" Harrison's face screwed up with effort, "We got a call through on the radio about a possible lead on the guy who shot Graham Morris. Lincoln knew Morris's dad, and we were the closest unit, so we took the call. We always patrol around near here… I can't tell you anything useful, though… I don't remember much…"
He trailed off and shrugged apologetically.
"You've told us enough," Doyle assured him, "Will you be okay here while we take a look around?"
"Sure," Harrison nodded, as Doyle helped him to sit up and lean against the car, "thanks."
Bodie and Doyle walked slowly away until they were out of earshot of the young cop.
"What do you make of it?" Doyle asked, slowly.
"I don't like it," Bodie replied, "too much of a coincidence. Whoever made that call knew these two would be in the area – whoever it was wanted Jim Lincoln to attend the scene. Knocked out young Harrison and then – what?"
"We need to find Lincoln," Doyle said, grimly, "our guy could still be nearby – he couldn't get far with a uniformed cop as a hostage…"
He trailed off, staring across the yard. Bodie followed his partner's gaze, and found that he was staring blankly at some large, rusty-looking metal drums. Almost in a trance, Doyle began to walk across the yard, and Bodie followed, already dreading what they might find. Doyle reached the vats first and examined them. Most were badly rusted or dented, but some were still fairly serviceable. Bodie found a crowbar, casually resting across the top of one of the drums. He picked it up, weighing it carefully in his hand, before he selected a drum at random. With some effort, sweating in the heat of the day, he levered off the lid. It rose with a creak of protest, before clattering loudly to the floor. The vat was empty.
"Try this one," Doyle pointed, "there's fresh scratches in the paintwork around the rim."
Bodie crossed over to the drum Doyle had indicated. He braced himself with the crowbar, and then pushed down with all of his considerable strength. The lid popped off, making both men jump back to avoid being hit by it as it crashed to the cobbled floor. Slowly, almost hesitantly, they leaned forwards and peered into the drum. The contents were grim.
"Bloody hell," Bodie groaned, "not another one."
Doyle said nothing, staring down at the sad corpse of Alan Lincoln, apparently shot in the forehead and then stuffed into the drum and abandoned. In his head, several vague thoughts slowly began to come together…In the distance, they heard the siren of the ambulance they'd sent for to attend Harrison. Bodie and Doyle shared a grim look.
"Are you going to break it to him or shall I?" Bodie asked.
Doyle sighed.
"I'll do it."
**CI5**