Cooling Off Time
By Swellison

The headstone, a dull, grayish pink, seemed unchanged--but then, seven-odd years' time was nothing for a stone meant to mark eternity's passing. Ray Doyle, CI5 agent and ex-copper, lifted his gaze and briefly took in the surrounding cemetery. The stark outlines of the granite and marble markers had been softened by long years of weathering, the forgotten names blurred by the passage of time. Still, there were many newer graves in this section of the cemetery. Too many people dead, Doyle brooded. Dead but not forgotten.... His green eyes focused on the name carved into the granite slab confronting him: SIDNEY FLOYD PARKER.

A slight wind ruffled through his curly, auburn hair and Doyle hunched his shoulders in his fur-trimmed, brown leather jacket. "It wasn't just 'cause she was pretty, Sid," he murmured. Jill Haydon had dangled the cause of justice before Doyle, claiming that her father had been wrongfully convicted of killing Fitch and Doyle's then-partner, police officer Parker. And Doyle still believed in justice--despite abundant exposure to the seamier side of humanity, through his years first with the Metropolitan police force, then with Scotland Yard, and now with CI5. The long-ago words of Sir William Blackstone drifted through his mind: "It is better that ten guilty persons escape than one innocent man suffer." Jill had almost convinced Doyle that William Haydon had been that one innocent man, but Doyle had unraveled her elaborate scheme, and now the china-doll-faced Haydon girl was in custody, charged with murdering the frail old caretaker, Martin Gilbert. Gilbert had witnessed William Haydon's flight from Ambury Mansions, scene of the double murder seven years ago....

Images from that night had haunted his dreams for days --- Doyle's endless dash up the stairs to Fitch's flat, the two bodies he spied on the floor through the open door, his brief touch, confirming Parker's death, his howlingly empty squad car racing after Haydon's Jaguar.... No. With an effort, he concentrated on other memories. He'd shared more than two years of his life with Sid; plenty of good times, even if their first meeting had been somewhat disconcerting.

* * * * *

Police Officer Ray Doyle loitered impatiently outside Sergeant Thompson's office. He had been summoned to the Sergeant's office and briefly introduced to his brand-new partner, then told to wait outside while Thompson filled Doyle's partner in on current cases. Doyle scowled at the closed door, not swallowing that malarkey about "current cases"; Parker was being briefed on his newly acquired partner, Raymond Doyle, not any current caseload.

Well, Doyle allowed, perhaps that was warranted. He had been brought to his superiors' attention several times during his two years on the force, managing to get up the noses of most of the stations house's hierarchy. Still, his arrest record was equally impressive, and he'd received almost as many commendations as reprimands. His first two years had been spent unit beat policing with four other officers, patrolling Blacktown, Chinatown and the docks on foot and in a panda car. There, Doyle had acquired valuable grasses and gained practical experience. And now, having passed his probationary period, he was being given his first partner.

Doyle's thoughts returned to the present as Thompson's door swung open and Parker stepped out. "It's just quitting time, Doyle. What say we get acquainted over drinks at the local?"

"Fine by me," Doyle agreed and they arrived at the Hoof and Claw in short order.

Doyle settled into a back booth and waited until Parker joined him carrying two lagers. Parker sat down opposite him, passing a lager over to Doyle. Taking a swig, Doyle studied his partner. Sidney Parker was about six feet two inches tall, and a solidly built man. He had thick, wavy brown hair already starting to recede at the temples, and a pleasant, even-featured face.

"So what did Sergeant Thompson tell you, behind closed doors?" Doyle asked. "Bet I can guess."

Parker answered truthfully. "He said you were an insubordinate, sarky bloke with a hell of a temper."

"What?!" Doyle sputtered on a half-swallowed sip of lager. "And what did you say to that?" he tacked on, sullenly.

"Told him I liked sarky, insubordinate partners--they keep things lively." He grinned at Doyle's startled look. "And I'm used to temper tantrums, what with Katherine and Elizabeth and all."

"Eh?"

"My little girls. Katherine is six and Elizabeth is four," the proud papa answered, and Ray remembered the thick gold wedding ring on Parker's finger. "Would you like to see some photos?" Parker asked, extracting his wallet. Next thing Doyle knew, he was being introduced to Parker's family through their pictures. Katherine took after her father, with dark curly hair and blue eyes, while Elizabeth inherited her mother's blonde hair and striking hazel eyes. Parker's wife, Marion, was a slim, attractive young woman in her late twenties. "You'll have to come over for dinner soon, partner. Marion's a great cook."

Doyle accepted, saying he'd have to swap recipes with Marion and the two men enjoyed a leisurely dinner. Their conversation ranged from police work and politics to pop singers, and they were on a first name basis long before the end of the meal. It wasn't until Doyle was driving back to his flat that he realized how skillfully Sid had turned his new partner's mood from grumpy wariness to friendly interest.

Doyle soon discovered that was Sid's forte: he exuded an authoritative, calming influence on everyone. Parker was well-liked by his fellow officers and respected on the streets. He gradually taught Doyle to be a better policeman, not through lecturing but by example.

Time with Sid wasn't confined to just their work shifts, either. Doyle's initial meeting with the Parker clan was the first of many similar get-togethers. He and Marion discovered an interest in art as well as cooking, and Doyle doted on the girls, who soon became Katie and Beth to Uncle Ray. Eventually, Doyle even achieved the lofty status of pinch-hit babysitter. In fact, Ray thoroughly enjoyed his preview of domestic tranquility--until it abruptly ended the night Sid died.

The weeks following Sid's death were a painful blur for Doyle. Somehow, he got through the funeral, though it almost broke his heart to see Katie and Beth dressed in solemn black mourning. The freshly-widowed Marion looked all of her thirty years and then some. Doyle tried to offer comfort and support to Marion and the girls, but he knew that his uniformed presence reminded Marion of what she had lost and why.

Testifying at the Haydon trial was another difficult task for Doyle. He endeavored to keep his testimony fair and impartial, but wasn't sure he succeeded. His opinion of the verdict was simple and emotional: it wasn't enough. Sid Parker had been worth ten William Haydons and a life sentence didn't alter that fact.

Work was almost equally trying. Sergeant Thompson tried pairing Doyle up with three different possible partners, all with dismal results. Doyle was back in Thompson's office, discussing the break-up of the Doyle/Hatcher team after less than two weeks' teaming. Hatcher had complained that Doyle was impossible to read, going from overprotective to overcritical to uncommunicative and sullen with whirlwind changes of mood.

"Is that all Hatcher said, Sarge?" Doyle asked after hearing the complaints.

"He also said three's a crowd in the panda car--you, Hatcher and your oft-quoted Saint Sid."

Doyle clenched his fists, knuckles whitening with anger. "That lousy bastard! Sid's worth a dozen Hatchers! Why, Hatcher's not fit to polish Sid's shoes, much less--" He cut off his sentence, but Thompson had no problem completing the thought: "--much less fill them".

Thompson gave the twenty-three year old Doyle time to compose himself. "Doyle. I know you find it hard to believe, right now, but you're not the only cop who's ever lost a partner." Doyle's head jerked up in surprise. "And, God knows, you won't be the last.

"Inspector Griggs and I've done our best to help you out, Doyle. We know the trial wasn't easy for you, but the Inspector's very pleased with your behavior in court. We've also given you a chance with all three officers available for partners, but that hasn't worked out. So the Inspector's taken the only logical alternative."

Doyle straightened in his uniform. Was failure to get along with your fellow officers adequate grounds for dismissal from the Met?

"Inspector Griggs has managed to secure you a place in the next detective training session, which is scheduled to begin two weeks from Monday. Afterwards, you'll be assigned to headquarters and you'll be Scotland Yard's headache, not mine." Thompson smiled, removing the sting from his words.

Doyle's chin almost dropped to the floor when he realized that instead of being fired, he was being promoted, in a round about way.

"You've got the makings of a first-rate detective, Doyle. You're smart, observant, and you've got great instincts. Parker noticed that right away--called it 'copper's nose.'" He coughed slightly. "We're all very sorry about Sid, Doyle. He was a good copper--one of the best."

"Yes," the younger man agreed, "and a good friend, too."

* * * * *

A sudden shift in the wind roused Doyle from his reverie. He blinked, and Parker's headstone came into sharper focus. How long had he been standing here, remembering? He glanced down at his watch and discovered he'd spent nearly two hours loitering next to his partner's final resting place. His straying eyes took in the rest of the inscription: Beloved Husband and Father ...and Doyle was catapulted into the last time he saw Marion Parker.

* * * * *

The ignition clicked off and Ray Doyle hesitated in his car. Perhaps he should've telephoned first, but Sid had given him a blanket invitation and Marion had continued to welcome Ray's visits after her husband's death. Katie and Beth swarmed all over their Uncle Ray during his calls, a treatment Ray didn't object to at all. Guiltily, Doyle realized that it had been just under five months since his last visit; how could he have left it so long?

Well, his work at the Yard kept him plenty busy. Eighteen months manning a desk at Scotland Yard would keep anyone hopping. "Desk job"--now that was a misnomer for sure. Doyle would almost swear he spent more time on the streets now--chasing down evidence and interviewing witnesses and suspects--than he had walking a beat at the Met. Especially lately, he'd just finished a month-and-a-half-long undercover drug operation. It was his first major undercover assignment and Sergeant Richards had been tickled pink with the results. Doyle had blended into the street scene as naturally as a chameleon. The conclusion of the operation had left Doyle with a strong desire to touch home base, which had led him to Marion's house.

Doyle left his car and walked briskly up to the Parkers' front door. He pushed the buzzer.

The door was opened promptly by a handsome blond man in his early thirties, dressed in evening attire. "Yes?" he inquired coolly, noting Doyle's blue jeans and open-necked shirt.

"Er--I was looking for Marion Parker," Doyle said, confused by the stranger's presence.

"Who's at the door, Evan?" Marion called out, joining him in the hallway. She peered outside. "Ray? Ray! Come on in, we haven't seen you for ages!"

Stepping inside, Doyle noticed that Marion was wearing a sky blue silk evening gown. "You look absolutely stunning, luv." He gave her a peck on the cheek, causing Evan to scowl. "I didn't mean to intrude, Marion. I didn't know you had company." Doyle glanced pointedly at the older man.

Marion hastily introduced Ray to Evan Riddell, attempting to smooth over the undercurrent of tension between the two men. She dispatched Riddell on a small errand and took Ray into the parlor to talk.

"The girls will be so disappointed they missed you, Ray," Marion said as they sank down onto the settee. "They're over at my mother's for the weekend. So, what have you been up to, Ray? I haven't seen you in months."

"Oh, the Yard's been keeping me busy. I just finished six weeks undercover," Doyle answered vaguely. His eyes skimmed the familiar room; very little had changed. The photographs on the oak desk had been rearranged, with a few extra pictures added. Doyle frowned as he recognized the man with Marion in the new photos: Evan Riddell. "You seem to be busy yourself, Marion. Been seeing a lot of Riddell?"

Marion glanced sharply at Doyle, wondering if he was aware of how proprietary his words sounded. "A fair amount. Evan's a nice man, Ray; you'd like him if you'd give him half a chance. He owns a horse farm in Cambridge and he's wonderful with Katie and Beth."

"That sounds like you're serious," Doyle stated.

"Well... it's getting to be serious," Marion admitted, meeting Ray's eyes. "What is this, a police grilling?"

Ray rose abruptly from the couch, crossing over to stare at a framed photo of Sid, Marion and the girls. "You planning on marrying this bloke?"

"That's not exactly your business, Ray," Marion rebuked, then rose from the settee.

"Not my business?" Doyle thundered, glaring at Marion as she walked over to his side. "I was Sid's partner! I promised him I'd look after you and the girls if..." His voice trailed off.

"Look, Ray, I know you mean well, but... I've been fending for myself and the girls for quite a while, now. And yes, I am hoping that Evan asks me to marry him, eventually. I don't want Katie and Beth growing up fatherless, they deserve better than that. And I--I'm starting to feel again. I've been numb for so long--"

"And I suppose you deserve better than being Sid's widow?" Doyle railed. "Sid hasn't been dead for two years and you're planning on marrying another man! What did you do, start dating the minute your year's mourning was up? Did you at least wait until the body was cool--?!"

SLAP! Marion's palm connected with Ray's cheek, effectively silencing him. They locked eyes for several moments then Doyle retreated, saying, "Don't bother, I'll let myself out." He strode rapidly towards the hallway. Marion let him go, too hurt and angry to even want to try to patch things up with Doyle.

* * * * *

Drifting back to the present, Doyle's senses registered that he was being observed. He turned around slowly, not at all surprised to encounter Bodie. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to get the car, didn't I?" Bodie answered Doyle's question. "After I finished up the paperwork on the Haydon girl, I hitched a ride from Murphy and presto, here I am." Bodie fidgeted in his black-and-white plaid lumber jacket, adding, "You've been here long enough, and it's getting chilly, Ray. Let me drive you home."

Briefly, Doyle considered protesting, but he was cold and had reached the edge of his memories. He didn't bother to ask Bodie how he'd located the cemetery. Possibly he used the Capri Ghia's tracer, but somehow Doyle doubted he'd really needed it. Bodie had an irritating ability to read Doyle like an open book, and a well-thumbed book at that. That rankled sometimes, because Ray's mental portrait of Bodie remained half-finished. Oh, the basic form was easy; a rough sketch of the tough ex-mercenary, but the texture and shadings, the details that made Bodie a unique individual, were lacking. Doyle knew how Bodie would act on the job, but he seldom divined his partner's motivations during their free time.

Surrendering wordlessly, Doyle walked toward Bodie's Capri and settled into the passenger seat.

Bodie swung into the driver's seat but made no attempt to start the car. Instead, he regarded his partner. Ray was still brooding, and Bodie knew that he was partially responsible for his partner's continuing mood. He had disappointed Doyle when he'd ducked the question of how he'd feel if a partner died. Sid Parker would've answered the question properly, giving his partner the empathy, the understanding or whatever it was that Doyle needed to hear. Well, Bodie wasn't Sid. But he'd driven the sod all over London for four days, giving Doyle his unconditional silent support. Didn't the golly know that actions spoke louder than words...?

Unbidden, a scene from one of their earlier cases sprang into Bodie's mind.

"Can you take him?" Bodie hurriedly asked Doyle as they crouched behind the parked car, a fair distance from Billy Turner and his nicked grenade.

"Bodie..." Doyle reproved, checking his rifle sight.

"Can you bloody take him?" Bodie asked, insistently.

"Yeah, I can bloody take him!" Doyle yelled back.

"I know you can," Bodie said, satisfied. "Just gives a man confidence to have it confirmed."

Well, so what was wrong with needing a few words of assurance, anyway?

"I told the truth when I said I didn't know how I'd feel if I lost a partner," Bodie offered suddenly. "Never lost one before." He continued quickly before Doyle could interrupt. "Oh, yeah, I've seen men die--fellow mercs, squad members, mates--good lads, all, but they weren't my partners. Never had a partner to lose, before you--so I don't know how I'd feel." And I hope to God I don't find out, Ray, he added silently. "But I know I wouldn't like it." Now that was a doozy of an understatement, Bodie thought. His voice hardened and his eyes turned ice blue. "And the bloke responsible--he'd like it even less."

Doyle absorbed all this in silence.

Oh, great, Bodie berated himself, revenge--a fine thing to promise an idealist. But what else was there? The traditional offer to look after Doyle's mother and sister could be misconstrued; the first thing Cowley's agents did upon joining CI5 was to provide for their surviving relatives, in case they were killed in the line of duty. Worse, Doyle might offer to reciprocate, and family was a dead subject as far as Bodie was concerned. Dead--it always came back to that....

Suddenly conscious of Doyle's green eyes boring into him, Bodie sought to ease the tension. "Not to worry, though, sunshine," he reached out and ruffled Doyle's curls. "You've got the best there is, guarding your back."

Bodie left himself wide open for one of Doyle's sarcastic comebacks, but his partner only said softly, "Yes, I know." Their eyes held for several seconds until Bodie abruptly slapped his jacket pocket.

"Almost forgot--I've got something for you. Came across it while I was doing the paperwork this afternoon." Bodie extracted a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over to Doyle.

Written on the slip of paper, in Bodie's economical script was the name, Marion Parker Riddell, followed by an address in Cambridge and a telephone listing. Doyle glanced sidelong at Bodie, calmly seated behind the wheel. Had Bodie somehow heard about his long-ago dust-up with Marion? Or was this just another example of how well Bodie knew him, inside and out?

Their conversation ran through Doyle's mind again and he realized that Bodie had given him more than Marion's address, just now. Bodie's words had provided Ray with some texture and shading for his mental portrait of his enigmatic partner. Indeed, Bodie had given unstintingly of himself since Saturday night, chauffeuring Ray everywhere while Doyle pursued the Haydon case to its conclusion. Bodie hadn't even squawked when Doyle had squelched their fishing plans this morning. Later, at Jill's house, he had wordlessly tossed Ray his car keys and Doyle had gone to personally inform William Haydon that he would spend the rest of his days in prison and that Jill would be behind bars, too. Bodie had stayed with Cowley, handling the clean-up and the report writing--the worst part of any case--by himself. Then, Bodie had come to the cemetery, ostensibly to retrieve his car.

Bodie was talking again. "Thought you might want to drive out to see her tomorrow. In case she's heard anything about Haydon," he explained, "what with the police grapevine being what it is."

"Tomorrow? We're work--"

"Forgot to tell you that, too," Bodie broke in. "Cowley was so pleased with the way the Haydon situation ended, he's given us the next two days off, believe it or not. Nice of the old so-and-so, isn't it?"

"Two days off?" Ray slipped the paper in his coat pocket. "Think I'd best call Marion first, not just pop up out of the blue tomorrow. She'd like to have some advance notice, I expect. Besides, that'll give us tomorrow and Friday for that fishing trip out in the country, eh?"

Bodie nodded in eager agreement, visualizing the catch of the day: the two voluptuous barmaids from the pub down the road.

"Still," Doyle mused reflectively, "you've got to admire the old man's technique." Ignoring the startled look on his partner's face, Doyle continued. "I spent four-and-a-half days of me own time chasing false clues and the old man gives us a measly two days off in return and comes out smellin' like a bloody rose."

"Ray, old son, don't look a gift cow in the mouth," Bodie advised.

"That's don't look a gift from the Cow in the mouth, Bodie," Doyle retorted, grinning. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you about prepositions?"

"Prepositions? Nah," Bodie turned the ignition on and shifted gears. As the car drove away, he added, "Now, if we're talking propositions...."

THE END