Note: This story originally appeared in "Media Rare", copyright 1985 by Idol Hours Press. I've tried to catch any "creative writing" efforts by my OCR software, but a few may have slipped past....

Dead Bluff
-- By Linda S. Maclaren
and
Gina Martin

Bodie and Doyle, alleged and self-proclaimed top agents in the elite squad known as CI5, paused at the kerb beside Bodie's gold Capri. They didn't need to exchange a word; a single, bemused look between them was sufficient. These two hard, dangerous men lived by a code of rules set down by George Cowley, tyrannical head of CI5 and its merciless taskmaster. One did not break his rules lightly and expect to go unpunished. Tonight, however, Bodie and Doyle had violated a maxim in another set of rules, this of their own making. To wit: Do not double-date roommates; such a practice invites a built-in excuse guaranteed to ensure an early end to the evening.

Of course, these roommates had been special -- two lovely, long-legged, curvaceous young women with healthy glows and mischief in their eyes who were hostesses for Air Canada.

Bodie reflected that they sure knew how to grow them in Canada, then frowned at the lost promise of the evening. He glanced at Doyle, who looked longingly toward the lighted window of the first-floor flat shared by the women.

"No scaling the glass tower tonight, Ray," he quipped drolly.

Doyle met Bodie's look. Simultaneously, they sighed as they climbed into the Capri. Doyle hunched down in the passenger seat while Bodie fired the engine to life.

The London streets were quiet and mostly deserted in the secluded area where the girls lived. Two a.m., with no place to go but home to empty beds. The bleak loneliness of the road, its black surface glistening from an earlier rain, matched their moods perfectly.

Bodie glanced at Doyle, his expression downcast. "Cheryl said she'd love to, but she didn't want to upset Toni, who'd told her earlier at the restaurant that she didn't want to."

Doyle grunted, unimpressed by the faint accusation in his partner's tone. "Toni said the same thing." Again, a mutual sigh was shared. Then Doyle chuckled, his boyish face breaking into a grin. "Hell, we got exactly what we deserved."

Bodie smiled, an act which transformed the hint of coldness that masked his face in repose. "Yeah. Next time, it's by the book."

Loudly and in unison, they proclaimed their creed: "Never double-date with roommates!"

Bodie let Doyle off in front of his Chelsea flat, refused the offer of a beer, and drove away after the briefest of farewells. Doyle crossed the sidewalk, the key to the gate already in hand, but some faint stirring of caution made him stop and turn back toward the street.

A car drove past slowly, its tyres hissing loudly on the wet pavement. It was a black Cortina; there was nothing special about it to arouse attention or suspicion, but Doyle seemed to have a sixth sense for trouble. He tensed, his hand automatically going inside his sports coat and gripping the stock of his .357 Magnum as the Cortina swung toward him. Headlights momentarily blinded him, and Doyle flinched away, his weapon half drawn. The car swung into the kerb and paused there, its engine revving. Doyle, whose imagination didn't generally wax metaphorical, thought it looked like some great jungle cat crouched and ready to spring. Tension hung as a palpable presence on the heavy night air.

Then, abruptly, the car reversed gear, squealed through the rest of its Y-turn, and raced back the way it had come.

Doyle breathed a sigh of released tension. 'Jumping at shadows,' he chided himself.

Still, the faint sense of foreboding stayed with him all the way inside. Even with the door locked and the comfortable disarray of his living room around him, Doyle's thoughts returned to the black Cortina. He crossed to the telephone, debated with himself for a long moment, then picked up the receiver and dialed. There was no answer at Bodie's; with a glance at his wristwatch, he realized it was too early for Bodie to have made it home yet. Replacing the receiver, he went to the kitchen and snagged a beer. He sipped it as he stood by the front windows and gazed at the dark, deserted street. Deliberately, he forced his mood to lighten and drift toward tentative plans for the weekend now that the tantalizing Toni was lost to him.

Later, he tried dialing Bodie's number again; there was still no answer. Bodie hadn't gone home. It was as simple as that.

But why did Doyle continue to feel the niggling, cold tightening at the base of his neck, his usually failsafe warning of danger?


Part Two

A summons to CI5 Headquarters at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning was not exactly the sort of weekend Ray Doyle had planned for himself. This sentiment was reflected in Bodie, still dressed in his elegant suit of the night before but looking a little more mussed for wear. They met at the entrance to the drab, gray building which housed the elite crime-fighting squad of CI5, the Big A.

Clearly, Bodie had been up all night, somewhere, up to something, certainly not home in bed as Doyle had been. Still, pride demanded that Doyle did not ask, but Bodie's little Cheshire grin was hard to ignore.

They entered the building together, were checked in by the Commissionaire, and rode the ancient lift to Cowley's office.

Though not large in stature, George Cowley, Controller of CI5, radiated an innate authority. His sandy hair was thinning a bit, and on bad days he limped from a bullet still lodged in his leg from an old war injury, but he remained lean and tough. The toughness extended to a forthrightness of manner as well, and right now, his manner reflected every bit of it.

Apparently, Cowley's idea of a day off also was not one spent on the job. He impatiently waved his two top agents into the office and crisply introduced the man with him. "Bodie, Doyle, Detective Chief Inspector Kline of the Met."

Kline was a big man, tall and barrel-chested without an ounce of fat on his massive frame. His expensive, tailored suit fit him perfectly, and he carried himself tall with arrogant pride. Without a word of greeting, he assessed the two agents coolly. Bodie and Doyle waited, their expressions carefully neutral, patiently hiding their annoyance at the scrutiny. Cowley would explain in his own time.

George Cowley tried to put himself in the Inspector's shoes, tried to see what the man from the Met saw when he looked at the two most effective operatives in the Big A. Bodie was an ex-Para, ex-mercenary, and ex- several less savoury occupations. He was a well-muscled man, handsome in a dark, brooding way, with a shadow of beard now lending a sinister coldness to his expressionless face. Smooth was the word to describe William Andrew Philip Bodie: smooth in appearance from his perfectly tailored clothes to his well-groomed head (though both suit and head now looked slightly disheveled after a long and presumably active night); smooth in his movements like the well-oiled action on a superbly crafted weapon; and smooth in his self-control, the way a predatory jungle cat is controlled as it stalks its prey with economical craft and cunning. Of course, Bodie was also stubborn, independent and impulsive, traits which frequently made him unpredictable. Cowley had to keep Bodie on a tight rein of control; relax, sometimes even for a moment, and Bodie would be gone, off on a lone hunt, the organizational teamwork of CI5 left reeling behind.

On the other hand, the word for Ray Doyle was casual. He preferred his clothes comfortable and practical. The wild, tousled mop of brown hair atop his open, expressive face resisted all efforts to tame it with the same independence Doyle himself resisted authority. His boyish good looks were deceptive, however, as one had only to look into the pale green eyes to realize this was a very dangerous man, at least as dangerous and hard as the tough ex-Para standing beside him.

Cowley sighed. He was proud of this team, but he seldom voiced it to his men. They were arrogant enough without his praise. He would support them with every bit of authority he possessed, and he wielded a great deal. Cowley knew Kline was an adversary, and he watched the DCI warily, waiting for the moment when he would have to step in.

Abruptly, Kline said, "Hold out your hands."

Still keeping their expressions impassive, the two men glanced at Cowley for confirmation. When their chief nodded briefly, they complied.

"All right," Kline said after a moment of examination. His eyes drilled into Bodie's. "Your knuckles are bruised."

Bodie affected alarm and stared at his hands. "You're right!" he agreed with exaggerated amazement.

Doyle failed to suppress a grin, but a glacial scowl from Cowley made him drag his mouth into a frown worthy of the seriousness of the situation. The chief of CI5 shook his head. Tearaways, both of them! "They brought in an uncooperative suspect yesterday," he explained coolly to the DCI.

"His knuckles were bruised then?" Kline asked calmly, determined not to be intimidated.

"They were."

Kline nodded thoughtfully and returned his gaze to the subjects of his scrutiny. "Antonia Page and Cheryl Reeves," he said quietly.

Bodie's eyebrows lifted fractionally. "Yeah?"

"You both were with them last night."

Though his outward appearance remained unchanged, Doyle inwardly braced himself for the worst. "Yeah," he admitted cautiously, the sense of foreboding rising again with renewed urgency.

"They were assaulted in their apartment this morning by a person or persons unknown."

This elicited a strong reaction from the two agents -- a flash of concern, a growing anger. "How are they?" Bodie demanded.

"In hospital, unconscious," Kline responded with an economy of words that seemed harsh. "Done over by a pro wielding the usual blunt instrument. I've never seen worse brutality."

At this, Doyle turned away, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his faded jeans. Of the two, his emotions surfaced more readily. He was an ex-copper, without the emotional toughness of his partner. Bodie could usually suppress his feelings behind a cool, calm facade. His temper could get the better of him at times; sympathy and compassion were more easily hidden.

Now, Bodie's eyebrows knotted together in anger. "Any suspects?" he asked with deceptive calm, allowing a pause before grating, "Besides us, I mean?"

This caused Doyle to turn back, a scowl erasing every trace of boyishness from his face. "Us?" he echoed grimly.

"Well, you have to admit, you looked likely suspects," Kline replied. "But not anymore."

Cowley rose from his desk. "Then, Chief Inspector, I assume this interrogation is at an end?"

Kline smiled fatuously. "Never was much an interrogation, Mr. Cowley."

"On the contrary," Cowley responded with iron civility. "Your attitude clearly conveyed your suspicions about my men. I do not run an organization of bullies and thugs, Chief Inspector Kline. They do not beat up helpless women, nor do they roust the occasional tramp or the odd cripple they might happen upon in the course of their work."

Kline spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement. Personally, he thought CI5 was a band of licensed vigilantes, terrorizing the streets at will, endangering lives and property, their tactics recalling the Gestapo of another period in European history. "Just checking our only lead, sir," he apologized, stepping toward the door. Neither Bodie nor Doyle stood aside for him, and Kline's expression hardened just a bit. But he didn't force the issue. One didn't tangle with CI5, either figuratively or literally, without ample cause. Secretly, he wished he could knock some of the arrogance out of the cold one, Bodie. Instead, he excused himself politely and departed.

As the door closed, Cowley snapped, "All right, Doyle, what happened last night?"

"Sir?" Doyle blurted, startled by the question and aware of a bewildered glance from Bodie.

"Last night," Cowley repeated, his voice softening to plummy smoothness. "Not so very long ago in memory, Doyle."

Doyle gritted his teeth, resisting the impulse to make an angry retort. One went against George Cowley only at great risk, and Doyle knew when to be cautious. "I meant, sir," he muttered tightly, over-stressing the 'sir,' "what specific happening?"

Cowley tapped the top of his desk lightly with a forefinger. "You called Control to check on Bodie's whereabouts."

This revelation earned Doyle a glare from his partner, but Doyle studiously ignored him. "No, sir, I did not check on Bodie's whereabouts. I only asked if Control knew where Bodie was -- they did, so I didn't pursue it further."

"We're bandying semantics!" Cowley snorted. "Why did you call Control to check on your partner?"

Doyle practically squirmed with embarrassment, and Bodie suddenly enjoyed the scene very much. "Yes, Ray," he urged with exaggerated politeness, "why?"

"Intuition," Doyle confessed at last. He explained about the black Cortina in front of his flat the night before. "Something about it wasn't right. I know it sounds stupid, but it seemed threatening -- hostile." He shrugged. "I was wrong."

Cowley nodded thoughtfully. "Or perhaps someone wanted to be certain you and Bodie were returning home and not just going out for drinks and snacks to take back to the young ladies' flat."

This revelation hit Doyle like a blow. "The bastard," he muttered.

Bodie's expression turned grim. "May we go now, sir?"

Cowley knew that tone. "Forget it, Bodie, Doyle. This is not a matter for CI5."

"But, sir -- " Bodie began to protest. He was always the quicker to rise against Cowley when he felt wronged.

"That's enough, Bodie!" Cowley snapped angrily. "You have two days off. Spend them wisely."

Bodie's eyebrows shot up, and he glanced quickly at Doyle, who was looking back at him with the same thought springing to mind. "Yes, sir," replied Bodie quickly, backing out of the office. Doyle almost trod on him as he hurried after.

The door closed once again, bringing silence to Cowley's office. The chief of CI5 sighed to himself. Bodie and Doyle. So predictable in their rebelliousness.

Cowley had stated his opposition to his agents pursuing personal investigations. He'd upbraided Bodie and Doyle on more than one occasion for this infraction. But there were times, such as now, when he knew even his sternest warnings would be ignored. Better to retreat gracefully before losing control of the situation. It was the only way to maintain authority.

Then, Cowley smiled grimly. Inspector Kline would have to move quickly if he expected to beat the best of CI5 to the savage criminal who had brutalized the two young women. And, because he was George Cowley -- leader of the tough squad that fought criminals at their own level with whatever counter force was required -- he hoped Bodie and Doyle found the attacker first. The person or persons unknown would get exactly what he or they deserved.

 

Part Three

A hospital was another place Bodie and Doyle would not have chosen to spend a Saturday morning. They hated hospitals. Hospitals smelled of disinfectant cloaking subtle, pungent odors of sickness, despair, and death. Perhaps they were reminded of the tightrope of danger they walked almost daily.

The doctor who met them looked tired and over-worked, probably prerequisites of his job as head of the emergency casualty ward. The agents identified themselves. The doctor's recitation of the injuries suffered by the two women was dispassionate and direct. He thought he was addressing authorities assigned to investigate the case; he had no idea he was dealing with two men who were personally involved, or else he might have chosen his words more carefully to soften their impact. Bodie and Doyle took the news with apparent impartiality, their feelings shielded.

When the doctor finished, Bodie asked, "May we see them?"

"Oh, out of the question, I would think," the doctor replied. "They've been heavily sedated. In the event you could question them, I doubt their responses would make any sense."

"May we at least try?" Doyle urged. There was a hard edge to his voice of barely restrained anger.

Uncertainly, the doctor said, "Well, all right."

He led them down a corridor to a trauma ward of a half dozen beds. Most of them were occupied. Nurses assigned to this station monitored an alarmingly vast array of equipment which registered every heartbeat and breath of patients clinging to tenuous threads of life.

Doyle tried to prepare himself for his first sight of Toni, she of the long, raven hair and sparkling green eyes. But the person lying in uneasy rest in the hospital bed did not resemble the woman he had kissed goodnight only a few hours before. Her head was swathed in heavy bandages that covered more than half her face. The portion of face still visible was purple and swollen, the eyelid completely hidden beneath the puffy flesh. Her lips were split, and the harsh stitching of surgical thread wove a vulgar pattern across her cheek. Her jaws were wired closed. The doctor paused at his elbow. "She couldn't speak even if she wanted to," he said quietly. "Her jaw's been shattered and most of her teeth knocked out. We'll have to replace the left half of her jaw and restructure her cheek."

Sickened, Doyle abruptly turned away and went to join Bodie at the next bed. Cheryl Reeves' face was totally hidden by bandages, a small relief after the shock Doyle had just endured. Bodie was bent over the bed, his voice quiet and calm as he spoke to her. His hand lightly touched hers below the spot where the intravenous needle gouged a channel to dispense its life-sustaining fluids. Doyle held back, leaving it to Bodie. The doctor commented in a whisper, "You know, I think the bastard used a club. Her nose has been utterly smashed."

The briefest flash of tension clenched Bodie's jaw in profile, but he did not turn on the doctor. Instead, a cold glare from Doyle served to silence the maundering physician.

Bodie shut everything but the present firmly out of his mind. He refused to picture the Cheryl of the night before, swinging lithely across the dance floor in his arms, her blond hair reflecting the lights in almost kaleidoscopic splendour. He did not think of her soft and supple lips or the sound of her laughter, sometimes a spontaneous giggle of embarrassment, other times a throaty chuckle of almost bawdy abandon. The person lying so helpless and small in the hospital bed was a victim, and therefore a witness. He had to question her.

However, he wasn't getting through to her. The drugs and pain and shock had removed her from reality, but he refused to give up trying. "Cheryl," he said for the dozenth time, "it's Bodie. I have to talk to you. Please, you have to help us find out who did this to you." This time, he felt the faintest pressure against his hand, and glanced down to see her bruised and swollen fingers trying to grasp his. Gently, ever so gently, he stroked her fingers to acknowledge her attempt. "Can you remember anything?" he asked softly, his face so close to hers that Doyle, only a few feet away, could not hear him.

Her lips moved slightly against the bandages, but all that emerged was a small whimper of pain. Bodie's expression didn't falter, but a thin sheen of sweat sprang out on his forehead, the only evidence of how much he hated what he was forcing himself to do. "Please, Cheryl, you have to help us."

This time, she mumbled something, words too jumbled for Bodie to understand. "Cheryl, please try," he urged her.

"You -- " she faltered. Then, "Bodie?"

"I'm here, Cheryl," he assured her. "I'm listening. Help us. "

"You -- can't -- have -- us," she forced out, each word punctuated by a small gasp of effort.

Now, irritated with himself for not grasping her meaning when she was trying so hard, Bodie glanced at Doyle. His partner pressed in close to try to catch her words. Between them, maybe they could make some sense of it all, justify her struggle to communicate.

"You can't have us," Bodie repeated. "Cheryl, is that what he said?"

Again, the words tumbled out, so important to her and yet so meaningless to them. "You -- can't -- have -- us." She moaned, reliving part of the horror, and her fingers convulsed around Bodie's hand, gripping so hard the knuckles shone pale blue through the bruising.

"Who, Cheryl?" Bodie persisted urgently. "Who can't have you?"

"You -- can't -- "Bodie sighed, nearly defeated, and Doyle could only shake his head in frustration. Cheryl was struggling to tell them something she felt was urgently important, and they were just too thick to understand.

"You -- can't -- " she repeated yet again. Bodie though she was becoming delirious. But her next words made him stiffen with dawning comprehension. "You -- Bodie -- Doyle -- can't -- have -- anyone." The run of words had taxed her strength beyond her limits, and her hand went limp in his as she slipped back into the more peaceful haven of unconscious.

Bodie straightened, his back aching as if he had he'd the position for hours instead of minutes. Tension had knotted his muscles. He and Doyle exchanged looks of chilled understanding.

It didn't need to be said, but Doyle said it anyway. "Somebody went after them to get at us."

Bodie nodded once, briefly, then turned and walked out o the ward. Doyle followed after him, studiously refusing to look at the savaged face of Toni Page as he passed her bed. Behind them, the doctor watched them go with a perplexed expression his face. The men from CI5 looked very dangerous. And then he wondered why the elite squad would be investigating an attack on two airline hostesses.

 

Part Four

Bodie remembered when he and Doyle had first met the girls. They'd delivered an undesirable to Heathrow for deportation back to his ill-favoured government. The girls had been hurrying to report for their outbound flight to the Continent. Bodie first had noted their natural beauty, of course, simply because this was Bodie's way. But soon he'd been taken by their bright, bubbly zest for life that spilled over into every gesture, every breathless word. They were a pair, were Cheryl and Toni, and a man could go crazy trying to keep up with them. The meeting had been brief, a quick exchange of phone numbers and a promise to get in touch. The promised rendezvous had taken place. The evening had been delightful, even though the two men sensed it would not be a long and passionate encounter...never double-date with roommates.

When they'd dropped the women off after the date and lingered in the doorway for reluctant goodnight kisses, Bodie and Doyle had seen the interior of their flat for the first time. It had startled and bemused them. A tiny apartment, it was made even smaller by the sheer accumulation of oddments it contained. Toni's collection of stuffed animals gathered from all over the world filled every available space. Bric-a-brac from their travels over-flowed the shelves. These mementos were not the sort of tasteful, artful objects someone with worldly experience might be expected to collect. No, these were plain, old-fashioned souvenirs, mass-produced for the gullible tourist. They gave the flat the appearance of a knickknack shop.

Now, standing in the doorway barely eight hours after last leaving it, the two CI5 agents masked any reaction to the scene within. The rooms had been wrecked, thoroughly and systematically demolished in an orgy of devastation. Every drawer had been pulled out and upended, their contents shredded and strewn about the floor. Broken glass lay everywhere on the thick carpet. Every dish, every cup, every little bottle of complimentary airline liquor had been smashed. Every souvenir had been utterly ruined. Stuffed animals lay disemboweled amid the rubble of what had once been a decidedly feminine flat, a place of frills and pastels that had instantly made Bodie and Doyle acutely uncomfortable.

Leaving Bodie in the doorway, Doyle ventured into the mess, picking his way carefully, ignoring the two forensics specialists rooting in the rubble in search of clues. He stopped by the window and looked out into the street, the scene of destruction behind him, carefully out of sight. He was badly shaken as he realized an awful truth. Yes, he'd been attracted to the women because of their worldly abandon, their high spirits and flirtatious behaviour that hinted of promise and passion without the knotty entanglements of commitment. Now, he realized, they were women with hearts of children, adventurous but innocent, the simplicity of their lives untouched by horror. Until now. The women had been attracted to Bodie and Doyle because of the aura of danger which surrounded them. It was an aura that could be perceived by those sensitive enough to recognize the chasm existing between normal people and the professional who made his living through violence, whether on the side of law and order or against it.

Yes, the girls had flirted with danger, and danger had sought them out.

Doyle thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans and tried to ward off the growing gloom of guilt weighing down on him. Yet he knew he and Bodie had been responsible for this somehow. They were trapped in a web of intrigue with no clue to the reasons behind it. Whoever had committed this brutality had been a heinous monster, shattering innocent lives and changing them forever. They had to find him.

Doyle turned and looked at Bodie, who now stood just inside the door, his keen eyes searching every detail of the room. Bodie glanced up and noted the look, but his expression remained neutral. Only the narrowness of his pinched lips hinted at what he was thinking. Doyle knew Bodie felt deeply about this savage assault.

With a sigh, Bodie worked his way into the room, examining the wanton vandalism for clues. Among the shreds and shards of two young lives, it would not be easy. Then he stopped, looking down at something on the floor just in front of his right foot.

Doyle joined him. "Something?"

Bodie glanced at one of the forensics men. "Got a pencil?"

The man joined him and held out a ballpoint pen. "This do?"

Bodie took it and bent to retrieve something off the floor. He held it up, looped over the pen to avoid the chance of disturbing any fingerprints. It glittered in the filtered sunlight coming through the tattered pink curtains covering the window: a wedding band; a man's wedding band, austere but heavy with gold. The forensics man held open a plastic bag and Bodie let the ring slip inside, When it was sealed and properly docketed, he took it back an examined it.

"Another memento," the forensics man commented. "This place is so filled with junk, how can you tell what belongs here and what doesn't?"

Doyle and Bodie didn't answer. Instead, they looked closely at the ring. There was engraving on the inside of the band, but it was worn nearly smooth from wear. Bodie had to turn the ring this way and that in the light to make the inscription visible.

"Ten June, nineteen sixty-one," Doyle read.

"Or sixth of October, nineteen sixty-one," Bodie countered, just to keep it interesting. "And some initials -- looks like G-something-S and A-something something."

"Forensics will be able to lift the inscription," Doyle said. "And I think it's June."

Bodie looked at him and nodded. They had good instincts about a great many things. They knew this wedding band was an important clue -- and the tenth of June was only two days away.

Bodie handed the evidence bag back to the lab man -- after all, this was a matter for CID -- then he and Doyle left the apartment. Riding down the lift, they didn't speak at first, and yet each was thinking the same thing: They were pushing too hard, running on a tide of emotion held behind a dispassionate facade. It was not a good way to stay healthy and sane in their chosen line of work.

"Breakfast," Doyle said at last. Some simple routine to give them pause, a chance to regroup and sort things out.

Bodie glanced at him, nodded reluctant agreement. A shower and change of clothes also would be welcome, he reflected.

They stepped into the morning sunshine and opened the doors on Bodie's Capri. The first shot blasted through the windscreen. Pebbled safety glass pelted down on the two agents as they dove for the meager safety of the interior of the car. The roar of the shotgun was ear splitting in the morning air. The second shot tore out the window on the passenger door, the third the glass on the driver's side. The shots came one on top of the next, pumped out with smooth precision so that neither man had time to draw his own weapon. They were too busy trying to keep their heads down and avoid the rain of death around them. Five shots were fired, five three-inch Magnum shells from a slide-action shotgun. One after another, the pellets raked the exterior of the Capri, shattering the headlamps, pitting the fenders, blowing out both front tyres.

The fifth shot exploded, and Bodie took a desperate chance. He rolled back off the seat of the car and onto the pavement, his hand drawing his 9mm Browning with practised ease. On the other side of the car, Doyle rose to crouch by the open passenger door, his .357 Smith and Wesson Magnum snouting between the door and the frame.

They found themselves aiming at nothing.

As one, they sprang up and sprinted forward. They rounded the corner in time to see a large figure dressed entirely in black leap behind the wheel of an idling car. It sped off around the next corner before either man could fire a single return shot.

The glimpse had been enough for Ray Doyle. "A black Cortina," he said bitterly. If only he'd understood last night, perhaps he could have done something to save the girls.

The entire incident had lasted only a few seconds, and now they became aware of pounding footsteps and shouted enquiries behind them. They turned to answer the breathless Constable's questions and to order instructions for an APB on the Cortina. Doyle's automatic copper instincts had tagged the last three figures of the registration.

The Capri was a mess. Bodie stared at it for a long minute, not really seeing the damage to his car but rather sensing the burning, driving hatred of the man who continued blindly to destroy even after his targets had taken cover.

He glanced at Doyle, saw the same thoughts reflected in his partner's face. Well, that was good. They were a team, and they were on the same track.

Problem was, there wasn't any trail to follow.

Doyle tried to brush some of the broken glass out of his tousled hair, but he only managed to inflict a dozen tiny, painful nicks in his hand. Safety glass wouldn't slash and maim, but it pricked like hell. He figured he'd have to comb it out, very carefully. Well, he'd done worse to his head before.

Bodie looked off toward the corner where the gunman had stood to blast away at them. Though his eyes could no longer see their attacker, his thoughts were focused clearly on him. He shivered suddenly, as if icy fingers had reached out from the grave to caress his spine. He realized Doyle was staring at him with a perplexed frown.

"What is it?" his partner asked.

Bodie shook his head. "Nothing," he replied roughly. "I'm hungry. Let's eat."

Doyle knew better than to push for an explanation of the strange expression he'd seen on his partner's face. Instead, he carefully reached into the rubble-strewn Capri and picked up the R/T. "I'll call in and get us another car," he said agreeably.

 

Part Five

The black Cortina was stolen, of course. It was discovered by an astute P.C. within a few hours after the shooting. Even the registration plates had been stolen from another vehicle in an effort to further confuse the investigation. It didn't confuse the police for long, but it was evidence of just how far the madman was willing to go in order to cover his trail.

A forensics team from CI5 descended on the bleak, deserted warehouse area where the Cortina had been found. This was a CI5 matter now, had become one the moment the first shotgun blast had ripped through the windscreen of Bodie's Capri. Bodie and Doyle were no longer investigating on their own; the entire CI5 team was solidly behind them.

The two agents went to the warehouse out of curiosity. They'd gone home, changed clothes and caught a quick meal before reporting to HQ to start looking through their old case files. The report about finding the Cortina had been a perfect excuse to free them from this drudgery, although they didn't anticipate being any real help to the team of experts already on the scene. As expected, a cursory examination of the car revealed nothing, but a tow truck arrived to haul the car to the CI5 garage, where it would be given a painstaking, meticulous search for clues.

Bodie and Doyle wandered back to Headquarters and reported to Cowley.

"I've been looking over your preliminary report," Cowley said as they entered the office. "Why are you so certain the wedding band is a clue?"

Doyle looked at Bodie, who scowled at the silent invitation to be spokesman. "Well, sir, a wedding band is an unusual souvenir. It's more like a little family heirloom, so we think if it belonged to one of the girls, she'd have kept it someplace special. It isn't something you'd put on a shelf next to an ashtray inscribed 'come see the sun in Majorca'."

Cowley considered this and nodded. "All right, perhaps the attacker lost it in his frenzy. But we can't be certain the marriage even took place in Britain, let alone trace every ceremony performed on that date in nineteen sixty-one." He sighed, a reflection of the frustration he felt. Like his men, he was geared for action; he hated the waiting, knowing their opponent had to make the next move. "What about the words Miss Reeves said: 'You can't have us.' What do they refer to --sex, love, friendship, simple companionship? What?"

Bodie and Doyle could only shrug. "We don't know, sir," Bodie answered for them.

"We won't be able to get inside the head of this one," Cowley predicted bitterly. "He's too far gone to second guess. The absolute demolition of the flat is proof of that."

"Still, if he's after us, perhaps we can draw him out," Doyle suggested.

"You mean by setting yourselves up as targets?" Cowley asked, irritation creeping into his tone and affecting it with the faint Scots burr that only became apparent when he was tense or annoyed. "You are targets, Doyle. You can't be more visible than you are already."

Inwardly, Doyle figured Cowley was probably right. Still, it grated. He hated the waiting.

So did Bodie. "We haven't learned anything from the files," he said. "We should be back on the street, keeping his attention."

"Suppose you manage to provoke another attack?" Cowley snapped. "Can you predict the location? Can you assure innocent people won't get in the way?" He shook his head in answer to his questions. "I think a better notion is to keep you off the streets, with your noses buried in the files. He's in those records, somewhere in your backgrounds. Only you can ferret him out. By keeping you out of sight, he'll have to play the waiting game, too, until we can find out who he is and get the upper hand." When Bodie and Doyle looked ready to protest, he calmly changed the subject by commenting pithily, "Pity you didn't get a better look at him."

Bodie stifled his protest and shrugged. "Big fellow, all in black." He paused for a moment and then said thoughtfully, "Looked a bit like our Detective Chief Inspector Kline, don't you think?" This supercilious query was directed at Ray Doyle.

"Now that you mention it, yeah, he did," Doyle replied with wide-eyed sincerity.

"What are you maundering on about?" Cowley snapped tetchily.

"I was just thinking we ought to question him, that's all," Bodie answered with the total deadpan only Bodie could achieve. "After all, he is our only suspect."

Even Cowley's thunderous scowl of disapproval could not stop Doyle's grin of amusement. "Get away then, both of you!" Cowley growled at them. "I only hope lack of sleep hasn't dulled your senses as much as it has your wit."

With a barely restrained smile of smug satisfaction, Bodie trailed out the door after his partner. One had to cherish these little moments of badinage with Cowley. It was not often the head of CI5 could be caught so totally unprepared.

 

Part Six

Doyle brewed a large pot of coffee in the tiny kitchen area of the reference room, then poured cups for himself and his partner. Bodie settled down on the lumpy naugahyde sofa and propped his feet on the armrest. The dingy room might have been known officially as the reference room, but unofficially, it was called a number of less polite names, the more mentionable including the cloister, the dungeon, and the pit. It was unquestionably bleak, as were most of the rooms in the Spartan headquarters of CI5. Bare linoleum floor, government surplus cream-coloured paint on the walls, a large wooden table, several stiff, wooden chairs and other oddments of furniture, a tiny stove, sink, and a couple of cupboards -- this was the reference room. The stack of files on the table only added to the general lack of tastefulness. Doyle pulled up a chair and glanced at his partner sprawled comfortably on the sofa. "Aren't you going to help?"

Bodie lightly tapped his temple. "Dusting off the files up here," he explained cagily. "We know this bastard. He's part of us, and all the official reports in the world won't help us find him until we know where he's coming from emotionally."

"Thank you, Doctor Freud," Doyle grunted back with a healthy dose of scepticism. He tackled the first file with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

Bodie fell asleep. True, he hadn't rested much the previous night, but he wasn't close to tapping his reserves of energy. He could go for days without sleep, generally at least two or three before his reflexes and thinking became impaired enough to affect his efficiency. But old habits died hard: he'd learned to sleep when and where he could -- on his feet, in the dirt, even in the mud. Military training had its advantages.

Even the sound of Doyle's coffee cup against the table or the shuffle of file flimsies didn't disturb him. However, the faint sound of the door handle turning brought him instantly awake again, his body unmoving but his eyes snapping immediately toward the source of the intrusion.

George Cowley walked in, glanced at Bodie in irritation, and crossed to the table. Belatedly, Bodie removed his legs from the sofa and sat up. Cowley handed Doyle a slip of paper. "It appears someone wasn't as lucky as you two against our shooter. Get over there."

They were out the door without comment. Bodie checked a blue Hillman Hunter out of the motor pool, and they drove swiftly into the disreputable heart of Stepney. The police had cordoned off a small area. Curious onlookers pressed against the barricades in hopes of catching a glimpse of the carnage.

Bodie parked next to a panda car, and the two agents ventured over to the thickest cluster of uniforms.

The attack had taken place on the sidewalk in front of a rundown apartment block. A light blue Escort, its metal pitted by the odd random shotgun pellet, offered mute testimony to the violence that had occurred. Great splashes of blood and other bodily gore created vulgar patterns of horror across the fender and door by the kerbside. The corpse lay next to the car. It was just identifiable as human. Someone had pumped all five shots from a high-powered shotgun directly into the body at close range.

The two agents identified themselves to a constable and were directed to the investigating officer, Detective Inspector Hodges. "This is what we have," he said after scanning their credentials. "Witnesses heard the shots, followed by screams, presumably from the victim. Looks as if the first blast was to the legs, enough to cut him down without killing him. Screams went on for a long time, they say, but nobody stuck a nose out to investigate. Either didn't want to get involved or were too smart to mix it with a shotgun."

"Probably a little of both," Doyle commented grimly, remembering his own years on the Met and the reluctance of witnesses to do their public duty.

"Don't know the order of the other shots," Hodges went on, "but it's likely the second or third tore his arm off at the shoulder. The screams probably died then, not to mention the victim. Last shot, at a guess, was straight into the face."

Bodie looked at the gruesome sight with macabre curiosity. To him, it looked like a huge mass of ground meat dressed in a cheap, blood-soaked suit. Maybe it was all someone's idea of a joke --no, the medical squad would have been able to tell if it were a real body under all that gore. "Any ID yet?" he asked, forcing the black humour from his thoughts. This sort of carnage he could handle without emotion. This was a grisly oddity, nothing more, and only the dead man's possible link to the madman who hunted them kept him interested.

"Examiner hasn't finished yet," Hodges replied, "so we haven't checked the victim's pockets, if we can find any in that mess. The car's registered to Eric McKay, lives at this address."

"Eric McKay?" Doyle echoed, his interest suddenly very keen.

"Mean something?" Bodie asked.

Doyle's mouth twitched with pleasure. "Ran across his name in those official reports, while you were pondering within." He tapped his temple meaningfully.

Bodie remained unfazed. "Yeah? Then who was he?"

"Two years ago, low man in the arms-smuggling op we traced to Freddy Price."

Bodie nodded in recollection. "Yeah. We nicked Freddy, too."

"And McKay grassed on him in exchange for a reduced sentence."

"Freddy Price," Bodie mouthed, savouring the name, testing his gut reaction to the possibilities. "He swore he'd kill McKay."

"And us," Doyle added. It was looking better all the time.

 

Part Seven

"Frederick Price died in prison six months ago," Cowley told them coldly when they'd reported back with their theory.

Their confidence sagged back to its former level. Still, it was difficult to give up such a neat little notion.

"A friend or relative?" Doyle persisted. "Someone out for revenge?"

Cowley sighed. "We'll check it out, of course," he promised grimly, but his eyes bore into them with intensity. "But it looks as if whoever is after you doesn't merely want you dead -- he wants to taunt you, bait you, make you play by his rules. Is that a trademark of Freddy Price or any of the crowd he ran with?"

Bodie and Doyle thought about it, but the answer was evident. No, Freddy and his mob were unimaginative crooks of a fairly lesser species. If they wanted you dead, they shot you or hired someone to shoot you. Either way, they came straight at you, without a flanking maneuver into the area of psychological warfare.

Cowley noted their deflation. "It was a good idea," he reassured them. "Eric McKay's death is a valuable clue. You know the case your shooter is part of. You know the time frame when you encountered him. Now, all you have to do is find out who he is."

"The Freddy Price file," Bodie mumbled unhappily. "Well, at least the pile has shrunk."

"Yes," Cowley agreed, "the Freddy Price file. But not tonight. Go home and get some rest, both of you. Tomorrow's a new day, and we'll begin again."

As they turned to leave, he added plummily almost as an afterthought, "By the way, you'll be under surveillance from now on."

Bodie and Doyle swung back, ready to protest, but Cowley was smiling at them so benignly, they knew better than to argue. They looked at each other, scowled at the thought of the ribbings they would take from their fellow agents, and left the office.

Still, it was nice to think they'd be able to get some sleep with the assurance that someone was keeping an eye on things. It wasn't a foolproof guarantee of safety, but it was one more precaution, and Cowley, the wary Scot, was a man who took precautions.

In the corridor, Bodie asked, "Take a swing by the hospital?"

Doyle's shoulders hunched defensively. "Yeah," he said at last, his tone carefully neutral. "Why not?"

It was dark when they climbed into the blue Hunter and started for the hospital. Rain had stopped only recently, and the streets were once again black and glistening, reflecting the lights of the buildings. Bodie negotiated the heavy Saturday night traffic with ease.

Saturday night, when everybody was going out on the town, going out to let off the aggravations of the workweek, going out for a little fun....

"We're never off duty, you know," Doyle commented suddenly.

Bodie glanced at him. "This some great insight that just occurred to you or what?" He thought he knew what was coming, so he delivered the question with faint ridicule, hoping to pull Doyle out of his mood and make him rise to the insult.

But Doyle didn't bite. "We risk the lives of innocent people every day in the course of our work."

"So does every copper in the country," Bodie retorted. "So does every cabby and bus driver. We take precautions. It's all we can do."

"But we risk lives even when we're not working," Doyle protested heatedly. "You go for a row on the Thames and wind up catching an international terrorist. Your date nearly got killed!"

Bodie shrugged, not particularly wanting to dredge up those old memories, check how well the scars had healed over his emotions. "Civic duty," he stated bluntly. "Civilians have responsibilities, too. Perhaps around us, the call to duty is just a bit more frequent."

"Two broken girls with years of pain ahead of them before their lives can begin to return to normal?" Doyle shot back. "How can what happened to them be part of their civic duty?"

"I wasn't talking about them," Bodie retorted coldly. "I was talking about Julie and the terrorist on the Thames. You're trying to lump everything into one big cauldron of guilt, and I'm not going to jump in after you!"

This was certainly true enough, Doyle knew. Bodie had once commented that if given half a chance, Doyle would blame himself for the invention of gunpowder.

"What happened to Cheryl and Toni was a fluke," Bodie continued angrily. "It wasn't our fault." He swung the Hunter almost viciously into a parking stall at the hospital, his knuckles white as his hands tightly gripped the steering wheel. He glared at Doyle, angry with him for exposing the raw helplessness and frustration they both felt when they were powerless to prevent heinous crimes in a world seemingly gone mad. "Not our fault," he repeated quietly, firmly, the finality of his statement leaving no room for argument. As further insurance, he threw open the door and jerked out of the car. He didn't wait for Doyle but strode quickly toward the hospital entrance.

Doyle sighed. Bodie was right. Self-pity wasn't in the book. He couldn't be responsible for every nutter out there who had a grudge, even if that grudge was against himself or his partner. You did your job, and you stopped him from hurting anyone ever again. Fight fire with fire. It was Cowley's way. It was their way. And self-pity wasn't listed as one of the options.

Doyle climbed out of the car and drifted after his partner. Seeing the broken, battered face of Toni Page wasn't going to be any easier, but at least his compassion would be honest, untainted by guilt. She had to get better for herself, not for Ray Doyle. And Ray would help her any way he could, for however long it took.

He caught up with Bodie just outside the trauma ward. "You're right, you know," he commented casually when Bodie looked at him. "Not our fault."

The cloud of doubt lifted from Bodie's handsome features. "Yeah."

They walked into the ward together.

Continue on to Part Two