Young Harrison had not taken the news of his partner's demise well, and was taken to hospital to be treated for shock and concussion. Within minutes, the yard had been cordoned off and surrounded by a number of other police cars. There were uniforms everywhere, as well as forensic investigators and dog handlers with baying hounds on tight leashes. Through the chaos, George Cowley strode into the midst of the scene, to find Bodie and Doyle stood looking down at a uniformed body as the coroner zipped it into a body bag and carted it away. They both glanced up as Cowley approached.

"Report," he snapped at them.

Bodie quickly recounted their arrival at the warehouse and what they had found.

"He was dead before we got here," he concluded, "nothing we could have done, sir."

Cowley made a non-committal noise in response.

"What was his name?"

"Alan Lincoln," Doyle replied, distantly, "you know, I'm sure I recognise him…"

"Where from?" Cowley demanded, "Think, Doyle, think!"

"I'm trying!" Doyle shot back, as his forehead creased in a frown of concentration, "Damn it…"

"Graham Morris," Bodie spoke up, "Jim Weston, and Alan Lincoln - three cops, all dead within two days. What the hell's going on?"

"That's what you two are supposed to be finding out!" Cowley snapped back, "What are you standing around here for? Get out there and find some answers!"

**CI5**

Back in the Capri, Bodie started the engine and realised that he didn't really have much of an idea where to go.

"Do you want to carry on chasing the rifle?" he asked, "Or do we go back to the paper trail?"

"I doubt whoever sold the gun would tell us much, even if we could find them," Doyle replied, absently, "No… back to the files. There's a connection here, I'm sure of it."

Groaning at the thought of reading through more paperwork, Bodie obediently slewed the car around, and sped out into traffic. Unbeknownst to them, from a dingy bed-sit opposite the warehouse, a shadowy figure behind a curtain watched them go, and was almost pleased by what he'd seen…

**CI5**

Bodie had long since given up reading the files. It was getting late in the day, the office was uncomfortably hot and stuffy, and the 'fridge was empty of cold drinks. Eventually, mumbling an excuse, he got up from the armchair he'd been lounging in, and offered to go to the local shop for refreshments. Doyle muttered an acknowledgement, absorbed in the paperwork. The answer was here, he just knew it… almost without thinking, he reached for Johnny Morris's service record. It was exemplary – he'd started out at just eighteen years old and shot up through the ranks; starting with a simple city beat, done a little work with CID and transferred to the drugs squad… Doyle's heart skipped a beat as, all of a sudden, the pieces fell into place. He leapt to his feet, about to charge off after Bodie, and then, with second thoughts, sat down slowly. It was always best to check… he reached for another file. Now that he knew what he was looking for, the work was easy…

Doyle did not hear Bodie re-enter, and jumped as a cold can of coke was deposited next to him.

"Steady on," Bodie smirked at him, "Found anything?"

"Yeah," Doyle leaned back in his chair, as he opened the coke, "old Johnny Morris was on the drugs squad before he retired three years ago due to ill health. He died a year later. His son, Graham, wanted to follow in his father's footsteps. Four years ago, Alan Lincoln and Jim Weston were partners on the drug squad. They worked under the supervision of Johnny Morris. There's our connection."

"A case the three of them worked on?" Bodie guessed.

"I think so," Doyle nodded, "there's one in particular that stands out from four years ago – Kenny Price and Bill Blake. They ran a little import and export business off the south docks; they looked small time but they were bringing in massive amounts of cocaine from Brazil and flogging it through a limited number of suppliers. It was a real tight ship. We knew it was coming in but we didn't know where from; nobody could get close enough to the organisation to find out. Several of the dealers got nicked but even they didn't know who they were working for. We had a feeling it was Blake and Price but we didn't have enough evidence."

"So what happened?" Bodie asked; his interest piqued.

Doyle picked up a file from the desk and tossed it to his partner, who caught it easily.

"All the main details are in there," Doyle replied, "basically, a couple of guys went in undercover. They worked for nearly six months before they were trusted enough to help move a shipment from the docks to the distributors. Two weeks later, there was enough evidence to blow the whole thing wide open. Both Price and Blake were arrested along with their three ships' captains, several lackeys, two or three heavies and most of the distributors. It was a big break for the drugs squad and the press had a field day. Price and Blake both went down for ten years apiece. I've chased the prison records. Bill Blake is dead – had a heart attack nearly a year ago. But get this – Kenny Price was released three months ago for good behaviour. He skipped parole and hasn't been seen since."

"Do you want me to put out an APB?" Bodie asked, reaching for his radio.

"Already done," Doyle responded, a little smugly, "and I've briefed Cowley over the 'phone. Betty's going to take over the files. We're going after Kenny Price."

"Then I'm driving."

Bodie gulped back the last of his coke, as the two of them quickly left the room.

**CI5**

The Capri accelerated through the streets. Although it was late in the evening, there was still enough summer time daylight to see by. The evening was hot and humid; a thick, muggy feeling pervaded the air.

"There's a storm coming," Bodie said, ominously, "I can feel it."

"Yeah," Doyle agreed, quietly.

They drove in silence for a while, and then Bodie suddenly slammed his hand down on the steering wheel, making Doyle jump slightly.

"What did you mean, 'we'?" Bodie demanded, shooting a quick glance at his partner.

"Hey?" Doyle said, surprised.

"Back then, when you were telling me about Blake and Price, you kept saying 'we'. As in, 'we knew it was coming in' and 'we didn't have enough evidence'," Bodie gave Doyle an accusing stare, "you worked this case as well, didn't you?"

Doyle sighed, and glanced out of the window.

"Yes," he replied, at last, "I did. I didn't recognise Weston at all and I barely knew Lincoln. They were two of the arresting officers. Morris must have taken the fall for his old man, who organised the whole operation."

"So how were you involved?" Bodie demanded, as he guided the Capri around a corner towards Kenny Price's last known address.

Bodie slowed the car down slightly as they entered a residential street, where a group of children were playing football in the road. They scattered like startled sheep as the Capri eased down the road, with cars parked either side. He could sense Doyle's hesitation to answer the question.

"You worked it undercover," he guessed, knowing instinctively that he was right, "you were one of the guys who brought down the ring, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Doyle nodded, peering out of the window at the houses, "there! That's the address."

Bodie double-parked the Capri and applied the handbrake. Doyle moved to get out of the car, but Bodie grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back.

"Not so fast," he said, "come on, tell me more. If we find Kenny Price, is he going to recognise you?"

"I don't know," Doyle shrugged, "four years is a long time."

"A long time spent in jail," Bodie shot back, "with nothing else to think about but the guys who put you away. Come on, Doyle! Weston and Lincoln are both dead and the bastard couldn't get Morris so he took it out in his son. You could be next!"

"Oh, you think I hadn't thought of that?" Doyle retorted, "Yes, he might recognise me. But I'd definitely know him anywhere. Now are you coming or what?"

Bodie paused, and then nodded. They got out of the car, slamming the doors and assessing the house.

"Does Cowley know?" Bodie asked, as they approached the building.

"Probably, by now," Doyle admitted, "it's in the files. Come on – you take the back and I'll go in the front."

Bodie disappeared down an alleyway that ran between the house and its neighbour as Doyle slowly sauntered up to the front door. It was an old house, with paint peeling from the door and window frames. A 'For Sale' board was nailed to the porch that surrounded the door, giving the name and number of a local estate agent. Doyle climbed the stone steps up to the porch, and casually leaned over the railings to glance down at the basement area. It was an old, wealthy area that had fallen into vague disrepair; stagnated, in a way. The houses were large and loomed over a street, too close together for any real privacy, but, as Doyle reflected, it was amazing what went on behind closed doors. His radio beeped in his pocket and he took it out.

"3-7. I'm in position," Bodie's voice reported.

"Acknowledged," Doyle murmured.

He slid the radio back into his pocket and knocked on the door. He couldn't hear any movement from within, but any sound would have been drowned out by the happy shouts of the children playing behind him. He knocked again, and then took out his radio.

"4-5," he muttered, "no sign of life. I'm picking the lock."

"Received," Bodie replied.

Doyle took a pick from his pocket and worked on the lock for a few moments. The door then opened with a click, and he eased it back on its hinges, peering into the gloomy interior. He slipped inside and closed the door as he raised the radio again.

"I'm in," he reported.

He pocketed the radio without waiting for Bodie's reply, and drew his gun. He swept through the downstairs rooms and found nothing; no sign of life, not even a stick of furniture. There was a long corridor with stairs leading to the second floor. The first door on the right led to an empty living room. The cupboard under the stairs was also empty, as was the kitchen. Doyle opened the back door, letting Bodie in.

"Downstairs is clean," he reported, as his partner drew his Browning, "second floor?"

"After you," Bodie gestured.

Working tag-team style, the two agents made their way up to the second floor. Like the ground floor, it was empty. With a sigh, Bodie holstered his gun.

"Nothing," he grunted.

"Didn't expect much after four years," Doyle replied.

Suddenly, both of them froze, as the front door slammed open. Bodie whipped out his gun again, as voices drifted up from the corridor. He jerked his head towards the stairs, and Doyle stepped forwards. He crept down a few steps and then jumped for the landing dropping to a crouch as Bodie came down from behind him...

**CI5**