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discoveredinalj2007-10-21 12:08 am
przed.livejournal.com) wrote in discoveredinalj2007-10-21 12:08 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Substitute, Part One
No real punk connection to this one, except the prompt, the Sex Pistols' cover of The Who's Substitute.
It's a big 'un, so I'm posting in two parts.
Substitute, Part One
Bodie was never sure what woke him up. All he knew was that he was suddenly lying on his back, wide awake and staring at the ceiling of an anonymous hotel room. He took a deep breath, turned on his side and closely examined the man beside him.
The man's hair was curly, but even in the pre-dawn light Bodie could see it was strawberry blond rather than the russet it should have been. His body was lean and well muscled, but those muscles had not been acquired running Jack Crane's obstacle courses or combating Brian Macklin's fists. And his hands, his hands were smooth and free from calluses, the hands of a man who made his living at a desk. Those hands, and the man they belonged to, had never climbed a cliff, nor fired a gun, nor tried to bring an ancient motorcycle back to life.
In short, the man was not Ray Doyle.
Bodie pursed his lips and tried to push all thoughts of Doyle out of his head, but he knew it was a losing battle. The sexy, scrawny bastard seemed to have permeated all of Bodie's senses, until he could no longer experience anything without the filter of how it might have been with Doyle. He couldn't see a film without wanting to tell Doyle about it, couldn't go to a restaurant with some bird without wondering how Doyle would have liked the wine. Couldn't fuck some anonymous bloke he'd pulled in a bar without thinking how much better it would have been to fuck Doyle. Or how much worse.
Because that was the problem, wasn't it? That was why he'd never tried it on with Doyle. 'Cause it might be bloody fantastic, having sex with Ray bloody Doyle, or it might be the worst thing he'd ever done. Might muck up everything: friendship, partnership. Everything.
It wasn't that he thought Doyle would turn him down. No chance of that. Doyle turned on in a stiff breeze, and he'd given Bodie enough hints that he swung both ways, at least in the distant past, that Bodie was sure he'd be willing. No, Doyle was up for it. Problem was, Bodie wasn't sure that he was.
He was up for the sex. He'd had fantasies about what it would be like to kiss that mouth, to feel that cock, to fuck that arse. But knowing Doyle, there'd be more than sex involved. Because Doyle did relationships and Bodie didn't and Bodie wasn't sure where that would leave them. And in the end, he didn't really want to find out. Better to keep the status quo than risk ruining what he had: best friend, great partner and a vivid fantasy life.
He turned onto his back again and stared at the ceiling. He was trying to decide between going back to sleep and waking the man beside him--Noel? Nigel? No, Neil, that was it--for nefarious purposes when his R/T went off.
Swearing softly, he grabbed the R/T and his clothes and made a dash for the small but functional en suite that had been one of the few selling points of the room. Shutting the door softly, he thumbed on the R/T.
"3.7."
"About time you answered, 3.7. Thought you never would." Bodie recognized Henderson's voice. Poor sod broke his leg in three places a month ago and had drawn comm. duty ever since.
"Was sleeping the sleep of the just."
"Not in your own bed, you weren't."
"And how do you know that?"
"Doyle tried you at your flat. Couldn't get an answer."
"Doyle." Bodie felt his back tighten as he frowned. "What did he want? Is he all right?"
"He's fine, but his R/T's buggered."
"Bloody thing's been playing up all week. I keep telling him to get a new one but he's too lazy to fill out the damned paperwork."
"Wish he would. He keeps calling me to pass on messages."
"And what's his message for me?"
"Asked me to let you know he got a call from a grass about the McGann case. Bloke wanted to meet right away."
"It's four o'clock in the bloody morning, Henderson."
"Don't I know it."
"Sorry. Did he leave an address?"
"Yeah, 14 Evershot Road. It's in Finsbury. He said he'd be there in about ten minutes."
"Thanks, Henderson. And if he calls back, let him know I'm on the way, would you?"
"Sure, Bodie."
Bodie quickly dressed in the loo, turned off the light and then slowly opened the door, hoping to avoid waking Neil. In the end, he needn't have worried. Neil was sitting up when he came out.
"That your work?" he asked, pointing at the R/T.
"Yeah."
"You a copper or something?" The question was asked with curiosity rather than hostility or fear, so Bodie answered as honestly as he could.
"Or something." Bodie pulled on his leather jacket and put the R/T in his pocket. "Best if you don't know what, exactly."
"I won't be seeing you again, then." To Neil's credit, his tone made that a comment rather than a question.
"Nah. Wouldn't be good for either one of us."
"Too bad." Neil leaned back against the wall and put his hands behind his head. "You're a lovely lay, Will."
Bodie let a smile be his answer to that.
"So, are you going to tell him?"
"Tell who what?"
And then Neil knocked him for six. "Tell the bloke I look like that you love him?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," Bodie said. Then he gave a cheeky grin. "And anyway, I don't love him, just fancy him."
"You keep telling yourself that, Will."
"Don't go thinking you know what you're talking about, Neil." Bodie swiftly abandoned the grin to show some of the real menace he tended to hide in polite society. "You don't want to meddle in things you know nothing about."
"It's not like we haven't all been there, falling for a good friend who happens to be straight and not wanting to fuck it up."
"That's not where I am. I don't think he's entirely straight, for a start."
"Well, then…" Neil started.
"But you right about me not wanting to fuck it up," Bodie said firmly.
"Ah."
"Yeah." Bodie did up his jacket and checked for his keys. "Take care, Neil."
"You too," he heard as he closed the door.
It was a good thing that the streets were nearly empty at this time of night, because Bodie's mind was not on the road as he drove towards Finsbury. He ran one red light, nearly went through two others and all because of Ray Doyle. Fucking Doyle and his tight arse and his dirty laugh and his rent boy posing. Bodie gritted his teeth as he shifted up and ran through another red light.
His R/T went off then, and because the universe was a miserable fucker, it was Doyle on the other end.
"You on your way, Bodie?"
"'Course I am. And I thought your R/T was buggered?"
"It was. But I gave it a good whack and it decided to play nicely. Bastard thing'll probably pack it in five minutes from now."
"Always cheery, aren't you Doyle."
"This time of the night, not really. And where the fuck were you anyway?" Doyle sounded cross. And well he might be. Bodie usually shared his whereabouts, even if he was planning on bedding a lovely lady. Especially if he was bedding a lovely lady, truth be told. But never when he planned on jumping the fence and pulling a fella.
"A gentleman never tells, Doyle."
"You're never a gentleman, Bodie."
"I'm always a gentleman. You're the cad."
"Yeah, yeah." Doyle sounded odd. Like he was too tired or too distracted to properly take the piss, Bodie wasn't sure which. "So when you planning on getting here?"
"You there already?"
"I should be there in a minute or two."
Bodie checked the name of the next street he passed. "It'll take me nearer thirty to get there. And that's if I'm not too nice about the speed limit."
"Don't let Cowley hear about it if a copper does you for speeding."
"No copper alive could catch me."
"I could," Doyle said, and just for a moment Bodie thought it was there again. The oddness of Doyle's voice. But then there was just static and the odd word slipping through. "Bugger this…packed in…soon." And then Bodie was alone in the dark, the purr of the Capri's engine, the drone of tyres on the macadam the only sounds in his ears. With the sleeping city surrounding him, Bodie felt as if he was the last man alive in London. He hit the clutch, shifted and sped up just a little bit more, suddenly needing to see Doyle more than anything, to confirm his existence.
He made it to the house in Finsbury in a little less than twenty-eight minutes, breaking all speed limits and not a few traffic laws in the process. He could see Doyle's gold Capri parked a few houses up as he turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.
The house wasn't much to look at. It was set back from the street and an overgrown hedge cut it off from its neighbours. It might once have been distinguished, but rot had set in long ago. Half the ground floor windows were boarded up, the yard wild with weeds and brambles. Bodie reckoned it wasn't good for much more than a squat, now, which was no doubt how Doyle's grass came to know about it. Not solid citizens, Doyle's grasses. On the dole, most of them, or getting by using less than legal means. Most of them lived in squats or wretched council flats. A few lived rough. They were none of them easy to find.
Bodie stood on the street, trying to spy a sign of life in the old building, but there was nothing. No light, no movement, no anything. A chill crawled down his spine and he began to wonder about this whole dodgy setup.
He pulled out his R/T and thumbed it on. "4.5, this is 3.7." Static was his only answer. Not that he'd expected anything else--it sounded as if Doyle's R/T had well and truly packed it in this time--but he'd hoped. "Doyle, can you hear me?" More static.
"Fuck this for a game of soldiers," he said, and took a step into the road.
And then the world exploded around him.
Bodie stumbled out of Cowley's office and down the corridor feeling as if he'd died and someone had forgotten to tell his heart to stop beating, his lungs to stop breathing. He felt as if his world had ended. Then again, it might have.
"You don't know he was in the house, laddie. None of us do."
"His car was there. It was the right address. What am I supposed to think?"
"Let Malone and the lads do their job. You're not fit for anything right now."
He had to admit that Cowley was right. He was fit for neither the job nor human company. Not when Ray Doyle was missing, presumed dead, blown up by some bloody nutter who hadn't even bothered to claim responsibility.
"Who was Doyle supposed to be meeting?"
"He never said when I was talking to him. Don't think he told Henderson either. Just some grass was all I heard."
"Then you've no clue what this was about. If it was CI5 business or something else from Doyle's past?"
"Whoever it was told Doyle he had information on the McGann case, but otherwise I've no fucking idea."
"Language, laddie. Now get that down your throat."
Cowley had wasted the good stuff on him, thirty years old if it was a day and it might as well have been cat piss for all that he could taste it. Doyle dead. Jesus fucking wept.
"Go home, Bodie. I'll call when I have any news."
"Can't. The explosion did in my car, didn't it? Murphy drove me back here."
"Well, then Murphy will drive you home. Tell him it's an order."
And that's what he was doing, looking for Murph so he could get a ride home and then drink himself insensible with a couple of good bottles he'd been saving for an evening with Doyle. Not nearly as good as Cowley's, but they'd suffice. Fuckin' hell, cheap gin would suffice at the moment.
As he neared the rest room he could hear voices drifting down the hall. Drawing closer, he could hear Murphy's clear tones. Closer still and he noted the other two were Lucas and McCabe. But he was nearly at the door before he could tell what they were saying. And when he did, he stopped cold.
"What was he like?" Lucas asked.
"Who?"
"Bodie. You thick or something? What was Bodie like when you found him?"
"What do you think?" Murphy's voice took on the 'I can't believe the idiots I work with' tone that he'd perfected over the years. If circumstances had been different, Bodie might have laughed.
"We know the generalities." That was McCabe. "We were wondering about the specifics."
"Christ almighty," Murph said, and that must mean he was pissed off. Murph never swore, never lost his temper. He was cooler even than Bodie, though Bodie would never admit that to anyone, let alone the man himself. "What sort of sick bastards are you?"
"Sick bastards who're going to have to work with Bodie. Who'd like to know what sort of shape he's in."
"Christ," Murph said again, but his voice made it clear he'd relented. Bodie could almost see his shoulders relaxing, see the thoughtful look on his face. "He was sitting on the pavement across the street when I drove up. Had his back to a garden wall. His hands were covered in blood. Looked like he'd gotten hundreds of little cuts on them when the house went up. And he was staring at where the house had been."
"Just staring?" McCabe asked.
"Just staring."
"See, that's what I don't understand," Lucas said. "I would have thought you'd have had to drag him out of the house. I'd have thought he'd run into it when it blew."
There was a long pause, a pause during which Bodie played the explosion over and over in his head. Remembered the way it lit up the pre-dawn sky, the way the bricks and wood of the house had turned into flying shrapnel, the way the sound of it had swallowed up the name he'd screamed at the top of his lungs, just like the fire must have swallowed up the man the name belonged to.
"I think he would have run into the house if he could have," Murph finally said. "But there was nothing to run into. When I got there, and that must have been maybe fifteen minutes after the explosion, it was nothing more than a smouldering pile of rubble. The fire brigade didn't have much to do. There was nothing left that even looked like a house."
"Fuck," McCabe said, slowly and with feeling. "Poor Doyle."
"Doyle went fast," Lucas said. "It's poor Bodie you should be thinking on."
"Poor bastard," McCabe said. "Don't take this the wrong way, Lucas, but I'm glad we're not that close. You go up in a fiery blast, I'll raise one for you at the pub, but I won't pine for you."
"Likewise, you prat," Lucas said.
"There's no one on the squad as close as those two," Murphy said. "I used to envy them that."
"Not any more," Lucas said.
"No." Murphy's voice was as flat as Bodie'd ever heard. "Not any more."
Bodie stood, immobile, back to the wall, wishing he'd been just a bit earlier, or just a bit later. Wishing he hadn't heard any of that. Stood listening as conversation drifted to cases and girlfriends and football and beer. Stood until he finally felt able to move.
"Murph," he said as calmly as he could manage. "Could you give me a lift home? My car's stuffed and Cowley's too mean to spring for a taxi chit. Said you could drive me."
"Sure mate." Murphy played the game that Bodie had started, feigning a normality that Bodie now knew none of them felt. Lucas and McCabe fell into the same farce, though Bodie saw them exchange a look that he chose to ignore.
Bodie stayed silent during the drive to his flat and Murphy followed suit. Bodie couldn't be bothered to say anything and he could tell from the set look on Murph's face and the way he fidgeted as he drove that he didn't know what to say. Bodie didn't blame him. He'd never known what to say in times like these himself. Better to stay silent than mumble some idiotic platitude; that was his philosophy.
"Thanks, Murph," Bodie said as they pulled up in front of his building. "You're a good mate."
"Do you want me to come up?" The question was tentative, as if Murphy didn't know whether he should even be asking it but felt he had to.
"No, 's all right."
"Really?" This time Murphy made eye contact and held it. Bodie felt himself being judged.
"Really."
Murphy gave him a sceptical look.
"Don't worry Murph. I'm not going to top myself."
"Never thought you would." Murphy straightened in his seat as if it was an affront to suggest he'd ever think such a thing. "Big tough lad like you."
"Yeah, well this big tough lad has an appointment with a bottle and his bed, in approximately that order."
"He might not be dead, you know." And there it was, the one thing they'd all avoided talking about, Murph and Lucas and McCabe. The elephant in the room. Bodie felt the breath catch in his throat and he swallowed deeply before answering.
"Yeah, I know. We've just got to wait till Malone and his crew go through the rubble."
"Yeah, well…"
Bodie opened the car door, unable to take any more of Murphy's well-meaning sympathy. "Go on, Murph. I'll be okay." He slammed the car door and didn't even look back to see if Murphy had driven off. He climbed the stairs to his second floor flat, went straight to his liquor cabinet and threw back a shot from the bottle he'd intended for his next night out with Doyle.
It was too much. His stomach rebelled and the next thing he knew he was hunched over the toilet, retching up the alcohol he'd just downed and the tea the fire brigade had given him and the bacon roll Betty had pressed into his hand. He kept on retching till there was nothing coming up but bile, and even then he couldn't stop the heaving.
In the end, exhaustion accomplished what his will couldn't and he collapsed, gasping, against the side of the tub. He pushed himself up, drank some cold water straight out of the tap and spat it out again and then made his way on shaking legs into the bedroom.
He kicked off his shoes, threw off his clothes and burrowed under the covers.
"You'd better not be dead, Doyle," Bodie muttered to no one, to himself, to whatever god was listening. "You'd fucking better not be dead."
As he fell into an unquiet sleep, full of dreams of explosions and screaming and one curly-haired, chipped-tooth bastard, one last thought drifted through his head: if Doyle wasn't dead, then where the fuck was he?
Bodie woke to a banging on the door. For a good twenty seconds he couldn't remember where he was or what had happened or why he was sleeping when the sun was streaming in through the window. And then everything came tumbling back and he threw back the covers, pulled on a robe and stumbled to the door.
He didn't expect to find George Cowley standing at his door, but there he was, looking impatient and tired and drawn.
"About time you answered, 3.7."
"Sorry, sir. I must have fallen asleep."
"That's all right, laddie. You likely needed it." Bodie came immediately alert. The Cow didn't usually sound nearly so benevolent. He waved him inside.
"Is there news?"
"Yes." Cowley looked at the bottle of scotch sitting on the mantle. "Would you mind?"
Bodie busied himself pouring a good helping of the amber liquid for Cowley. He didn't bother with one for himself. He didn't want to throw it up again. Especially not in front of Cowley.
He waited until Cowley had taken an appreciative sip of the scotch before he spoke again. "What have you heard, sir?"
Cowley's face should have told him what he needed to know, but he found he was clinging to one last pathetic scrap of hope.
"Malone's men found a body in the remains of the house." Bodie began shaking his head, not wanting to hear what he knew must come next. "They believe it's Doyle."
"It can't be. He's too mean to die."
"I'm afraid it might be, Bodie. He must have been close to the explosives, because the body was badly burned, but the build's right. And what's left of the clothes."
"Jesus." Bodie sat down before his legs went out from under him.
"The pathologist's examining the body now. We should know for sure in a few hours."
"I want to see him."
"I wouldn't advise it, Bodie.
"I don't care what you'd advise. I need to see him."
"Aye, I suppose you do." Cowley swallowed the remaining scotch in his glass and took a deep breath. "Well, get dressed. I'll take you there myself."
Bodie stood in the centre of the morgue, in the midst of stainless steel tables and glass cabinets full of unspeakable instruments, and wished he'd taken Cowley's advice. Wished he'd let the experts deal with this, wished he hadn't felt the overwhelming need to see the body they all thought was Doyle's.
But he had done. In part, he had to admit, because he'd wanted them to be wrong. He knew Doyle better than anyone. Better than his family, better than his girlfriends. Better than Cowley. And he'd been sure that if he saw the body, he'd be able to tell that it wasn't Doyle, that it had all been some horrible mistake.
But looking down at the body before him, a horror of charred flesh and broken bone, he was no longer sure of anything. The clothes, what remained of them, could certainly have been Doyle's, and the corpse was the right size and build. But what ate at Bodie were the glints of metal melted around the man's neck and wrist. Doyle always was a bloody peacock, liked to show his skin, liked to show his jewellery, and here was a body with what looked like the same bloody bracelet and neck chain that he'd favoured.
Bodie hadn't been bothered by the physical evidence of death since his teens, since Africa, but he felt convulsions threatening his stomach again and knew he had to leave the room. He burst through the doors to find Cowley in the antechamber talking quietly with the pathologist, a tall, cadaverous man with a neatly trimmed moustache and a nervously twitching mouth. They both looked up as he entered, their expressions not betraying their emotions and that in itself told him more than he wanted. He wondered what exactly it was they saw. A man who'd lost his partner, his best friend. Or a man who'd lost so much more.
Bodie approached them with purpose. His own instinct had failed to tell him the body wasn't Doyle; he needed an expert to do it for him.
"Do you know yet? If it's Doyle?" Bodie was in no mood for social niceties.
"Dr. Marwood was just about to give his report. Doctor?"
The pathologist looked to Cowley before speaking, and Bodie saw Cowley give a nearly imperceptible nod. He resented the fact that Marwood thought he might need to be protected from the truth, whatever it was, even as he realized that protection might be exactly what he wanted.
Wanted, but couldn't live with. He'd never shied from the truth before, and he wasn't about to now. Not even if it meant that confirming those bones in the room behind him belonged to the man who meant the world to him. He met Marwood's eyes as steadily as he could as the man began speaking.
"As I was just telling Mr. Cowley, we don't have a positive I.D. on the body yet. The blood type matches Doyle's, as does the basic physical description, as far as that goes. Beyond that, though, it's going to be difficult."
"Difficult, how?"
"Well, you've seen the body. There are no fingerprints left to check. And Mr. Doyle's dental records might prove useless."
"What? Why?"
"I know it's hard to tell, but it wasn't the blast that killed our friend in there. He was shot in the head before the explosion."
"That wouldn't explain why you can't use Doyle's dental records."
"No, but after he was shot, his teeth were smashed. Probably with a hammer."
"Christ." If Bodie'd thought he felt like throwing up before, the sensation was almost overwhelming now. He swallowed the saliva building up in his mouth before speaking again. "You sure that was done after he was dead."
"Oh yes. Quite sure."
"Thank fuck for small mercies," Bodie said under his breath, earning a sharp look, but nothing more from Cowley. He was knew he was straining Cowley's tolerance with such language, but found he didn't give a rat's arse.
"Dr. Marwood," Cowley said, redirecting the good doctor's attention. "When do you think you'll be able to tell us if this is Doyle?"
"Tomorrow morning most likely. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest. It's going to be painstaking work reconstructing his mouth, but we should be able to manage it by then."
"Thank you, doctor." And without waiting for further word from the doctor, Cowley took Bodie by the elbow and ushered him out.
Once they were in the hall Cowley backed him into a wall and fixed him there with a firm expression. "I know I shouldn't have to say this Bodie, but I'm going to say it anyway. No matter what the doctor finds I don't want you going off on a mission of vengeance. I don't want CI5's reputation smeared by you meting out vigilante justice."
"Vigilante justice?" Bodie spat out the words and pulled his arm out of Cowley's grasp. "What about the usual sort of justice? Would sticking that on the necks of the bastards who did that," he nodded toward the morgue, "besmirch the reputation of CI-fucking-5?"
"No it would not, Bodie, and you know it. But I think you also know why I had to make that clear."
"Why don't you spell it out?" Bodie was feeling sickened and vicious in equal measure, and since the true targets of his anger were nowhere in sight, Cowley would have to suffice.
"Very well. You've consistently shown an inability to follow the rules where Doyle's life is concerned. You've disobeyed orders to save him and pushed the limits of other orders to keep him safe."
"I've never endangered a mission. Not once." Bodie was yelling now and knew it and didn't care one jot.
"You've never failed on a mission, Bodie, but you've endangered more than one over the years. And don't think I don't know it."
"Then why haven't you fired me? Why haven't you kicked me off the squad?"
"Because you've never failed. Because you and Doyle, faults and all, were the best team I had."
"Were?" For even suggesting that it was Doyle lying on that table, Bodie was ready to murder the Scottish bastard where he stood.
"Yes, were. And I hope you'll continue to be." Cowley took a deep breath and Bodie could see him deliberately calm himself, even as Bodie felt his own rage rise and pulse and thump inside his chest. "But think it through, man. You're not nearly as thick as you let some believe. Even if that body isn't Doyle, what do you suppose has happened to him?"
Bodie took a shallow, painful breath as all the twilight fears he'd suppressed came tumbling back to him. Bodie didn't say anything, but that moment he hated Cowley more than he'd hated anyone in his life.
"If that's not Doyle, then Doyle's still missing," Cowley said. "Which means who ever set that explosion did it to hide the fact that they took Doyle. And if they were willing to do that, to kill another man to conceal the fact that they have Doyle, then what else would they be willing to do?"
No longer able to stand still, Bodie started pacing the narrow corridor. "Christ," he said, even as he restrained himself from putting a clenched fist through the wall. Broken bones would help no one, least of all Doyle.
Bodie started as Cowley put a hand lightly on his arm.
"I need you thinking, Bodie. And more important, Doyle needs you thinking."
"If he's still alive."
"Even if he's not, would you want to do less than your best to find his killers?"
And Cowley had him there.
"Fine." Bodie made that one syllable as short as he could, not trusting himself to say more.
"I can count on you?"
"Yes." Bodie moved away from Cowley's hand. "You bloody know you can."
"Good," Cowley said, but for someone who'd got what he wanted he looked remarkably unhappy. "Now come on. We'll go back to headquarters and trace Doyle's movements for the last twenty-four hours."
"Yes, sir." Bodie followed Cowley's back, concentrating only on what he could do to solve the mystery Doyle had left them. Grief and anxiety would be put aside for the moment, as would all thought of what he might do in a world without Doyle. Time enough to consider that if the worst came to pass and he was left with nothing but a bare plot of earth holding Doyle's bones and the fool's game of wondering what might have been if he'd damned the consequences and tried it on with Doyle.
The next day at noon, Bodie found himself in the CI5 rest room, foot sore and exhausted and with no more clue about what had happened to Ray Doyle than he'd had the previous day. It had been easy enough for Cowley to propose tracking Doyle's steps before his disappearance, but there had been fuck all actual evidence to work with.
Bodie had last seen Doyle that evening, when Doyle had dropped him off at his flat. Doyle had pressed him a bit about his plans, and, given that those plans were to find a willing man to fuck, Bodie had put him off. Ray'd been in a bit of a funk as he'd driven off. Silly sod never did well when he didn't get his way.
Then again, thinking about it, Bodie realized that Doyle had been in a bit of a funk for a while now. He'd been off his game when it came to ribbing Bodie. Hadn't been much for going out, either, apart from a few evenings at the pub with Bodie. Bodie wasn't even sure when he'd last pulled a bird. Kept claiming he was too tired or couldn't be bothered. Had he known something he wasn't telling Bodie? Did he have some idea what might happen to him?
Bodie wasn't sure. But what he was sure about was that after Doyle had left him at his flat, he seemed to disappear from the face of the earth. None of his neighbours had seen him come or go. He hadn't been to his local or the shops in his area. He hadn't called any of the birds Bodie knew he'd seen in the last six months. Bodie'd pinched Doyle's little book from his flat and called them all, every last one.
None of them had seen Ray for ages and all had been surprised to hear from Bodie. A few, the ones Bodie had liked anyway, asked if Ray was all right. Bodie had lied and said yeah, he'd just gone off on vacation without letting anyone know where and they needed to clear up some of his files at work. They all knew he and Bodie worked together, and they had all been at the mercy of Doyle getting called in at odd hours, so none of them had thought his call too peculiar.
He stopped in at headquarters with his non-information, only to have Cowley send him on another errand: checking Doyle's known grasses. He ran into a few other agents--Anson, Susan, even Stuart--who'd all been drafted by Cowley to find out what they could about Doyle. Some had canvassed the neighbourhood of the explosion hoping to run across a local insomniac who might have seen something, some had already started tracking down Doyle's informants, but no one'd had any more luck than Bodie.
Bodie spent the night in some of London's more unsavoury corners looking for the various no-hopers that Doyle got information from. The ones he could find weren't too pleased to see him. None of them admitted to calling Doyle, nor of having heard anything about what Donal McGann might be up to.
Some time before sunrise, Bodie had come in to headquarters to grab a quick kip in the rest room. He'd headed out again a couple of hours later, when Murph had stumbled into the room searching for a place to lay down his head. Bodie'd spent four more hours on the streets and come up with precisely nothing before admitting that he was past the point where he could do any good without a proper night's sleep and a decent meal. But he still didn't want to go home, so he'd returned to CI5.
Which was where he found himself, stretched out on the clapped out sofa someone had donated to the rest room years ago, staring at the plaster peeling off the ceiling and wondering if he was ever going to see Doyle, living or dead, again.
And it was in that state of mind that Cowley found him.
"Bodie, I need to talk to you." Cowley rapped out the words in his usual impatient manner. Bodie was so knackered he didn't even take the time to analyze Cowley's tone of voice, he simply stood and followed his boss to his office.
Once there, Cowley pointed him to a chair, poured them both a generous helping of adequate scotch, and began to talk.
"I've heard from Dr. Marwood."
Bodie was suddenly wide awake, the scotch settling like liquid mercury in his stomach.
"What's his verdict?" Bodie asked, not knowing if he wanted his question answered or not.
"He doesn't have one."
"What?"
"According to the good doctor, there is no way to positively identify the body we found. The teeth were too badly destroyed to check the dental records."
"What about broken bones? Surely Ray's had a few."
"Doyle's had a few cracked ribs over the years, as had the body. But doctors don't consider broken ribs serious enough to x-ray, so we have no record of which ones Doyle broke." Cowley pursed his lips. "That's a flaw in our record keeping which has now been corrected. I'm ordering every agent to have x-rays done after every break, no matter how minor."
"Doesn't help us with Doyle, though, does it." Bodie couldn't help but feel bitter that Cowley was making policy decisions while Bodie didn't know if his partner was alive or dead.
"No it doesn't. And I'm sorry about that, Bodie. Truly I am." Bodie's bitterness evaporated in the face of Cowley's obvious sympathy. But with the bitterness gone, Bodie wasn't sure what he felt. Grief? Anger? Emptiness? He felt like a balloon that had been blown up too much, ready to burst into far, far too many pieces at any moment.
"Christ." Bodie clenched his jaw and felt his hand tighten around the glass in his hand. "So we'll never know." He found he couldn't meet Cowley's eyes.
"Not unless Doyle turns up."
"Alive or dead."
"Alive or dead," Cowley agreed.
Bodie wanted nothing more than to pull back his arm and hurl the glass in his hand through Cowley's window. Destroying something seemed the best way to deal with the turmoil that roiled through his mind, that churned in his gut. But instead he placed the glass very, very carefully on Cowley's desk.
"Bodie?"
"What have you told Doyle's family?" Bodie'd met Ray's sister, Meg, a few times, and had been to dinner at his mum's in Derby once or twice. He always found it hard to believe that such an ordinary, likeable family had produced such a sarky scruff as Doyle. He didn't like to think of them going through what he was feeling.
"Nothing as yet. I was waiting for Dr. Marwood's findings. I didn't think there was any reason to worry them if it wasn't Doyle."
"And now?"
"Now I'll tell them the truth."
"And the body?"
"I'm ordering it held for a while yet. But if Doyle's family want to claim it..." Cowley didn't continue and Bodie didn't prompt him. Bodie didn't envy Meg and Mrs. Doyle that decision.
"And what about you, Bodie?" Cowley called him back from his unquiet thoughts.
"What about me?"
"Can I count on you to work this case?" Cowley paused and leaned forward across his desk. "Are you all right?"
Bodie nearly laughed. George Cowley being considerate of one of his agent's feelings had to be a sign of the coming apocalypse. But he didn't laugh. In fact he didn't think he'd feel like laughing again for a good long time.
"Told you before, I want justice for the bastards who did this. Nothing's going to stop me from seeing they get it. And…" Bodie had to stop for a moment. He suddenly found his throat had become too narrow for the words to get through.
"And?" Cowley encouraged.
"And maybe, just maybe, Doyle is still out there." Bodie clenched his right hand into a fist so tight that he could feel his fingernails bite into the palm of his hand. "And if he is, I'm going to find him."
Another day and Bodie was just about ready to admit defeat. They'd tracked down nearly every grass Doyle had ever talked to, he and Cowley's other agents. They'd even talked to a few that hadn't seen Doyle since he was a bright young copper in uniform. But no one knew anything. Not that they were telling. And Bodie was pretty sure that they'd all told what they knew.
No one knew anything about the explosion. No one knew if someone had his sights on Doyle. No one knew a fucking thing.
Bodie leaned back against the headrest of his Capri and closed his eyes for a moment. He'd slept even less last night than the night before, and it was beginning to catch him up. Didn't help that he was beginning to feel a deep, draining exhaustion in his limbs that had nothing to do with his sleepless nights and everything to do with the absence of Ray Doyle from his side.
Fucking bastard, to go and leave him like this. He'd kill him if he ever saw him again.
Sitting there, Bodie could feel his body relax with the beginnings of sleep and found he didn't have the energy to fight it any more. Sleep was an enemy and it took him there, parked in a less savoury part of the Embankment. It didn't soothe, but taunted him with images of fire and darkness. It mocked him with a vision of Doyle laughing until he screamed and transformed into the burned horror Bodie'd seen in the morgue.
Bodie awoke with a start, a sick taste in the back of his throat, and a beeping in his ear that turned out to be his R/T.
"3.7."
"You always take forever to answer, Bodie?"
"Sod off, Henderson. What do you want?"
"Cowley's turned up some new information."
Bodie's spine straightened and he frowned at the R/T in his hand. "What is it?"
"He finally got Doyle's phone records. He got a call from a phone box in Stepney just before he contacted me. That mean anything to you?"
"Might do." It was a slim enough lead, but Bodie saw where it might take him.
"You going to fill me in?"
"Doyle had a grass in Stepney, Charlie Teale."
"Doyle had plenty of grasses. I thought none of them knew anything."
"Charlie Teale happens to be the only one no one's been able to find."
"Things don't look good for Charlie Teale, then."
"Not when I find him, they won't."
"You'll have to wait for that."
"No I bloody won't."
"Yeah, you will. Cowley's ordered all agents in for a briefing on the Doyle situation."
"I already know about the Doyle situation."
"All agents, Bodie. He made me promise to tell you especially. He'll have your bollocks if you don't show up. "
"Christ."
"I expect the Cow'd want him in too, if he was part of CI5."
"Sod off, Henderson," Bodie said by way of signing off. He thumbed off his R/T far harder than necessary and threw it onto the passenger seat, the place Doyle should have been sitting. The place where he'd soon be sitting again, if Charlie Teale could be found and if Bodie had any say in the matter.
On to Part Two.
It's a big 'un, so I'm posting in two parts.
Substitute, Part One
Bodie was never sure what woke him up. All he knew was that he was suddenly lying on his back, wide awake and staring at the ceiling of an anonymous hotel room. He took a deep breath, turned on his side and closely examined the man beside him.
The man's hair was curly, but even in the pre-dawn light Bodie could see it was strawberry blond rather than the russet it should have been. His body was lean and well muscled, but those muscles had not been acquired running Jack Crane's obstacle courses or combating Brian Macklin's fists. And his hands, his hands were smooth and free from calluses, the hands of a man who made his living at a desk. Those hands, and the man they belonged to, had never climbed a cliff, nor fired a gun, nor tried to bring an ancient motorcycle back to life.
In short, the man was not Ray Doyle.
Bodie pursed his lips and tried to push all thoughts of Doyle out of his head, but he knew it was a losing battle. The sexy, scrawny bastard seemed to have permeated all of Bodie's senses, until he could no longer experience anything without the filter of how it might have been with Doyle. He couldn't see a film without wanting to tell Doyle about it, couldn't go to a restaurant with some bird without wondering how Doyle would have liked the wine. Couldn't fuck some anonymous bloke he'd pulled in a bar without thinking how much better it would have been to fuck Doyle. Or how much worse.
Because that was the problem, wasn't it? That was why he'd never tried it on with Doyle. 'Cause it might be bloody fantastic, having sex with Ray bloody Doyle, or it might be the worst thing he'd ever done. Might muck up everything: friendship, partnership. Everything.
It wasn't that he thought Doyle would turn him down. No chance of that. Doyle turned on in a stiff breeze, and he'd given Bodie enough hints that he swung both ways, at least in the distant past, that Bodie was sure he'd be willing. No, Doyle was up for it. Problem was, Bodie wasn't sure that he was.
He was up for the sex. He'd had fantasies about what it would be like to kiss that mouth, to feel that cock, to fuck that arse. But knowing Doyle, there'd be more than sex involved. Because Doyle did relationships and Bodie didn't and Bodie wasn't sure where that would leave them. And in the end, he didn't really want to find out. Better to keep the status quo than risk ruining what he had: best friend, great partner and a vivid fantasy life.
He turned onto his back again and stared at the ceiling. He was trying to decide between going back to sleep and waking the man beside him--Noel? Nigel? No, Neil, that was it--for nefarious purposes when his R/T went off.
Swearing softly, he grabbed the R/T and his clothes and made a dash for the small but functional en suite that had been one of the few selling points of the room. Shutting the door softly, he thumbed on the R/T.
"3.7."
"About time you answered, 3.7. Thought you never would." Bodie recognized Henderson's voice. Poor sod broke his leg in three places a month ago and had drawn comm. duty ever since.
"Was sleeping the sleep of the just."
"Not in your own bed, you weren't."
"And how do you know that?"
"Doyle tried you at your flat. Couldn't get an answer."
"Doyle." Bodie felt his back tighten as he frowned. "What did he want? Is he all right?"
"He's fine, but his R/T's buggered."
"Bloody thing's been playing up all week. I keep telling him to get a new one but he's too lazy to fill out the damned paperwork."
"Wish he would. He keeps calling me to pass on messages."
"And what's his message for me?"
"Asked me to let you know he got a call from a grass about the McGann case. Bloke wanted to meet right away."
"It's four o'clock in the bloody morning, Henderson."
"Don't I know it."
"Sorry. Did he leave an address?"
"Yeah, 14 Evershot Road. It's in Finsbury. He said he'd be there in about ten minutes."
"Thanks, Henderson. And if he calls back, let him know I'm on the way, would you?"
"Sure, Bodie."
Bodie quickly dressed in the loo, turned off the light and then slowly opened the door, hoping to avoid waking Neil. In the end, he needn't have worried. Neil was sitting up when he came out.
"That your work?" he asked, pointing at the R/T.
"Yeah."
"You a copper or something?" The question was asked with curiosity rather than hostility or fear, so Bodie answered as honestly as he could.
"Or something." Bodie pulled on his leather jacket and put the R/T in his pocket. "Best if you don't know what, exactly."
"I won't be seeing you again, then." To Neil's credit, his tone made that a comment rather than a question.
"Nah. Wouldn't be good for either one of us."
"Too bad." Neil leaned back against the wall and put his hands behind his head. "You're a lovely lay, Will."
Bodie let a smile be his answer to that.
"So, are you going to tell him?"
"Tell who what?"
And then Neil knocked him for six. "Tell the bloke I look like that you love him?"
"Don't know what you're talking about," Bodie said. Then he gave a cheeky grin. "And anyway, I don't love him, just fancy him."
"You keep telling yourself that, Will."
"Don't go thinking you know what you're talking about, Neil." Bodie swiftly abandoned the grin to show some of the real menace he tended to hide in polite society. "You don't want to meddle in things you know nothing about."
"It's not like we haven't all been there, falling for a good friend who happens to be straight and not wanting to fuck it up."
"That's not where I am. I don't think he's entirely straight, for a start."
"Well, then…" Neil started.
"But you right about me not wanting to fuck it up," Bodie said firmly.
"Ah."
"Yeah." Bodie did up his jacket and checked for his keys. "Take care, Neil."
"You too," he heard as he closed the door.
It was a good thing that the streets were nearly empty at this time of night, because Bodie's mind was not on the road as he drove towards Finsbury. He ran one red light, nearly went through two others and all because of Ray Doyle. Fucking Doyle and his tight arse and his dirty laugh and his rent boy posing. Bodie gritted his teeth as he shifted up and ran through another red light.
His R/T went off then, and because the universe was a miserable fucker, it was Doyle on the other end.
"You on your way, Bodie?"
"'Course I am. And I thought your R/T was buggered?"
"It was. But I gave it a good whack and it decided to play nicely. Bastard thing'll probably pack it in five minutes from now."
"Always cheery, aren't you Doyle."
"This time of the night, not really. And where the fuck were you anyway?" Doyle sounded cross. And well he might be. Bodie usually shared his whereabouts, even if he was planning on bedding a lovely lady. Especially if he was bedding a lovely lady, truth be told. But never when he planned on jumping the fence and pulling a fella.
"A gentleman never tells, Doyle."
"You're never a gentleman, Bodie."
"I'm always a gentleman. You're the cad."
"Yeah, yeah." Doyle sounded odd. Like he was too tired or too distracted to properly take the piss, Bodie wasn't sure which. "So when you planning on getting here?"
"You there already?"
"I should be there in a minute or two."
Bodie checked the name of the next street he passed. "It'll take me nearer thirty to get there. And that's if I'm not too nice about the speed limit."
"Don't let Cowley hear about it if a copper does you for speeding."
"No copper alive could catch me."
"I could," Doyle said, and just for a moment Bodie thought it was there again. The oddness of Doyle's voice. But then there was just static and the odd word slipping through. "Bugger this…packed in…soon." And then Bodie was alone in the dark, the purr of the Capri's engine, the drone of tyres on the macadam the only sounds in his ears. With the sleeping city surrounding him, Bodie felt as if he was the last man alive in London. He hit the clutch, shifted and sped up just a little bit more, suddenly needing to see Doyle more than anything, to confirm his existence.
He made it to the house in Finsbury in a little less than twenty-eight minutes, breaking all speed limits and not a few traffic laws in the process. He could see Doyle's gold Capri parked a few houses up as he turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.
The house wasn't much to look at. It was set back from the street and an overgrown hedge cut it off from its neighbours. It might once have been distinguished, but rot had set in long ago. Half the ground floor windows were boarded up, the yard wild with weeds and brambles. Bodie reckoned it wasn't good for much more than a squat, now, which was no doubt how Doyle's grass came to know about it. Not solid citizens, Doyle's grasses. On the dole, most of them, or getting by using less than legal means. Most of them lived in squats or wretched council flats. A few lived rough. They were none of them easy to find.
Bodie stood on the street, trying to spy a sign of life in the old building, but there was nothing. No light, no movement, no anything. A chill crawled down his spine and he began to wonder about this whole dodgy setup.
He pulled out his R/T and thumbed it on. "4.5, this is 3.7." Static was his only answer. Not that he'd expected anything else--it sounded as if Doyle's R/T had well and truly packed it in this time--but he'd hoped. "Doyle, can you hear me?" More static.
"Fuck this for a game of soldiers," he said, and took a step into the road.
And then the world exploded around him.
Bodie stumbled out of Cowley's office and down the corridor feeling as if he'd died and someone had forgotten to tell his heart to stop beating, his lungs to stop breathing. He felt as if his world had ended. Then again, it might have.
"You don't know he was in the house, laddie. None of us do."
"His car was there. It was the right address. What am I supposed to think?"
"Let Malone and the lads do their job. You're not fit for anything right now."
He had to admit that Cowley was right. He was fit for neither the job nor human company. Not when Ray Doyle was missing, presumed dead, blown up by some bloody nutter who hadn't even bothered to claim responsibility.
"Who was Doyle supposed to be meeting?"
"He never said when I was talking to him. Don't think he told Henderson either. Just some grass was all I heard."
"Then you've no clue what this was about. If it was CI5 business or something else from Doyle's past?"
"Whoever it was told Doyle he had information on the McGann case, but otherwise I've no fucking idea."
"Language, laddie. Now get that down your throat."
Cowley had wasted the good stuff on him, thirty years old if it was a day and it might as well have been cat piss for all that he could taste it. Doyle dead. Jesus fucking wept.
"Go home, Bodie. I'll call when I have any news."
"Can't. The explosion did in my car, didn't it? Murphy drove me back here."
"Well, then Murphy will drive you home. Tell him it's an order."
And that's what he was doing, looking for Murph so he could get a ride home and then drink himself insensible with a couple of good bottles he'd been saving for an evening with Doyle. Not nearly as good as Cowley's, but they'd suffice. Fuckin' hell, cheap gin would suffice at the moment.
As he neared the rest room he could hear voices drifting down the hall. Drawing closer, he could hear Murphy's clear tones. Closer still and he noted the other two were Lucas and McCabe. But he was nearly at the door before he could tell what they were saying. And when he did, he stopped cold.
"What was he like?" Lucas asked.
"Who?"
"Bodie. You thick or something? What was Bodie like when you found him?"
"What do you think?" Murphy's voice took on the 'I can't believe the idiots I work with' tone that he'd perfected over the years. If circumstances had been different, Bodie might have laughed.
"We know the generalities." That was McCabe. "We were wondering about the specifics."
"Christ almighty," Murph said, and that must mean he was pissed off. Murph never swore, never lost his temper. He was cooler even than Bodie, though Bodie would never admit that to anyone, let alone the man himself. "What sort of sick bastards are you?"
"Sick bastards who're going to have to work with Bodie. Who'd like to know what sort of shape he's in."
"Christ," Murph said again, but his voice made it clear he'd relented. Bodie could almost see his shoulders relaxing, see the thoughtful look on his face. "He was sitting on the pavement across the street when I drove up. Had his back to a garden wall. His hands were covered in blood. Looked like he'd gotten hundreds of little cuts on them when the house went up. And he was staring at where the house had been."
"Just staring?" McCabe asked.
"Just staring."
"See, that's what I don't understand," Lucas said. "I would have thought you'd have had to drag him out of the house. I'd have thought he'd run into it when it blew."
There was a long pause, a pause during which Bodie played the explosion over and over in his head. Remembered the way it lit up the pre-dawn sky, the way the bricks and wood of the house had turned into flying shrapnel, the way the sound of it had swallowed up the name he'd screamed at the top of his lungs, just like the fire must have swallowed up the man the name belonged to.
"I think he would have run into the house if he could have," Murph finally said. "But there was nothing to run into. When I got there, and that must have been maybe fifteen minutes after the explosion, it was nothing more than a smouldering pile of rubble. The fire brigade didn't have much to do. There was nothing left that even looked like a house."
"Fuck," McCabe said, slowly and with feeling. "Poor Doyle."
"Doyle went fast," Lucas said. "It's poor Bodie you should be thinking on."
"Poor bastard," McCabe said. "Don't take this the wrong way, Lucas, but I'm glad we're not that close. You go up in a fiery blast, I'll raise one for you at the pub, but I won't pine for you."
"Likewise, you prat," Lucas said.
"There's no one on the squad as close as those two," Murphy said. "I used to envy them that."
"Not any more," Lucas said.
"No." Murphy's voice was as flat as Bodie'd ever heard. "Not any more."
Bodie stood, immobile, back to the wall, wishing he'd been just a bit earlier, or just a bit later. Wishing he hadn't heard any of that. Stood listening as conversation drifted to cases and girlfriends and football and beer. Stood until he finally felt able to move.
"Murph," he said as calmly as he could manage. "Could you give me a lift home? My car's stuffed and Cowley's too mean to spring for a taxi chit. Said you could drive me."
"Sure mate." Murphy played the game that Bodie had started, feigning a normality that Bodie now knew none of them felt. Lucas and McCabe fell into the same farce, though Bodie saw them exchange a look that he chose to ignore.
Bodie stayed silent during the drive to his flat and Murphy followed suit. Bodie couldn't be bothered to say anything and he could tell from the set look on Murph's face and the way he fidgeted as he drove that he didn't know what to say. Bodie didn't blame him. He'd never known what to say in times like these himself. Better to stay silent than mumble some idiotic platitude; that was his philosophy.
"Thanks, Murph," Bodie said as they pulled up in front of his building. "You're a good mate."
"Do you want me to come up?" The question was tentative, as if Murphy didn't know whether he should even be asking it but felt he had to.
"No, 's all right."
"Really?" This time Murphy made eye contact and held it. Bodie felt himself being judged.
"Really."
Murphy gave him a sceptical look.
"Don't worry Murph. I'm not going to top myself."
"Never thought you would." Murphy straightened in his seat as if it was an affront to suggest he'd ever think such a thing. "Big tough lad like you."
"Yeah, well this big tough lad has an appointment with a bottle and his bed, in approximately that order."
"He might not be dead, you know." And there it was, the one thing they'd all avoided talking about, Murph and Lucas and McCabe. The elephant in the room. Bodie felt the breath catch in his throat and he swallowed deeply before answering.
"Yeah, I know. We've just got to wait till Malone and his crew go through the rubble."
"Yeah, well…"
Bodie opened the car door, unable to take any more of Murphy's well-meaning sympathy. "Go on, Murph. I'll be okay." He slammed the car door and didn't even look back to see if Murphy had driven off. He climbed the stairs to his second floor flat, went straight to his liquor cabinet and threw back a shot from the bottle he'd intended for his next night out with Doyle.
It was too much. His stomach rebelled and the next thing he knew he was hunched over the toilet, retching up the alcohol he'd just downed and the tea the fire brigade had given him and the bacon roll Betty had pressed into his hand. He kept on retching till there was nothing coming up but bile, and even then he couldn't stop the heaving.
In the end, exhaustion accomplished what his will couldn't and he collapsed, gasping, against the side of the tub. He pushed himself up, drank some cold water straight out of the tap and spat it out again and then made his way on shaking legs into the bedroom.
He kicked off his shoes, threw off his clothes and burrowed under the covers.
"You'd better not be dead, Doyle," Bodie muttered to no one, to himself, to whatever god was listening. "You'd fucking better not be dead."
As he fell into an unquiet sleep, full of dreams of explosions and screaming and one curly-haired, chipped-tooth bastard, one last thought drifted through his head: if Doyle wasn't dead, then where the fuck was he?
Bodie woke to a banging on the door. For a good twenty seconds he couldn't remember where he was or what had happened or why he was sleeping when the sun was streaming in through the window. And then everything came tumbling back and he threw back the covers, pulled on a robe and stumbled to the door.
He didn't expect to find George Cowley standing at his door, but there he was, looking impatient and tired and drawn.
"About time you answered, 3.7."
"Sorry, sir. I must have fallen asleep."
"That's all right, laddie. You likely needed it." Bodie came immediately alert. The Cow didn't usually sound nearly so benevolent. He waved him inside.
"Is there news?"
"Yes." Cowley looked at the bottle of scotch sitting on the mantle. "Would you mind?"
Bodie busied himself pouring a good helping of the amber liquid for Cowley. He didn't bother with one for himself. He didn't want to throw it up again. Especially not in front of Cowley.
He waited until Cowley had taken an appreciative sip of the scotch before he spoke again. "What have you heard, sir?"
Cowley's face should have told him what he needed to know, but he found he was clinging to one last pathetic scrap of hope.
"Malone's men found a body in the remains of the house." Bodie began shaking his head, not wanting to hear what he knew must come next. "They believe it's Doyle."
"It can't be. He's too mean to die."
"I'm afraid it might be, Bodie. He must have been close to the explosives, because the body was badly burned, but the build's right. And what's left of the clothes."
"Jesus." Bodie sat down before his legs went out from under him.
"The pathologist's examining the body now. We should know for sure in a few hours."
"I want to see him."
"I wouldn't advise it, Bodie.
"I don't care what you'd advise. I need to see him."
"Aye, I suppose you do." Cowley swallowed the remaining scotch in his glass and took a deep breath. "Well, get dressed. I'll take you there myself."
Bodie stood in the centre of the morgue, in the midst of stainless steel tables and glass cabinets full of unspeakable instruments, and wished he'd taken Cowley's advice. Wished he'd let the experts deal with this, wished he hadn't felt the overwhelming need to see the body they all thought was Doyle's.
But he had done. In part, he had to admit, because he'd wanted them to be wrong. He knew Doyle better than anyone. Better than his family, better than his girlfriends. Better than Cowley. And he'd been sure that if he saw the body, he'd be able to tell that it wasn't Doyle, that it had all been some horrible mistake.
But looking down at the body before him, a horror of charred flesh and broken bone, he was no longer sure of anything. The clothes, what remained of them, could certainly have been Doyle's, and the corpse was the right size and build. But what ate at Bodie were the glints of metal melted around the man's neck and wrist. Doyle always was a bloody peacock, liked to show his skin, liked to show his jewellery, and here was a body with what looked like the same bloody bracelet and neck chain that he'd favoured.
Bodie hadn't been bothered by the physical evidence of death since his teens, since Africa, but he felt convulsions threatening his stomach again and knew he had to leave the room. He burst through the doors to find Cowley in the antechamber talking quietly with the pathologist, a tall, cadaverous man with a neatly trimmed moustache and a nervously twitching mouth. They both looked up as he entered, their expressions not betraying their emotions and that in itself told him more than he wanted. He wondered what exactly it was they saw. A man who'd lost his partner, his best friend. Or a man who'd lost so much more.
Bodie approached them with purpose. His own instinct had failed to tell him the body wasn't Doyle; he needed an expert to do it for him.
"Do you know yet? If it's Doyle?" Bodie was in no mood for social niceties.
"Dr. Marwood was just about to give his report. Doctor?"
The pathologist looked to Cowley before speaking, and Bodie saw Cowley give a nearly imperceptible nod. He resented the fact that Marwood thought he might need to be protected from the truth, whatever it was, even as he realized that protection might be exactly what he wanted.
Wanted, but couldn't live with. He'd never shied from the truth before, and he wasn't about to now. Not even if it meant that confirming those bones in the room behind him belonged to the man who meant the world to him. He met Marwood's eyes as steadily as he could as the man began speaking.
"As I was just telling Mr. Cowley, we don't have a positive I.D. on the body yet. The blood type matches Doyle's, as does the basic physical description, as far as that goes. Beyond that, though, it's going to be difficult."
"Difficult, how?"
"Well, you've seen the body. There are no fingerprints left to check. And Mr. Doyle's dental records might prove useless."
"What? Why?"
"I know it's hard to tell, but it wasn't the blast that killed our friend in there. He was shot in the head before the explosion."
"That wouldn't explain why you can't use Doyle's dental records."
"No, but after he was shot, his teeth were smashed. Probably with a hammer."
"Christ." If Bodie'd thought he felt like throwing up before, the sensation was almost overwhelming now. He swallowed the saliva building up in his mouth before speaking again. "You sure that was done after he was dead."
"Oh yes. Quite sure."
"Thank fuck for small mercies," Bodie said under his breath, earning a sharp look, but nothing more from Cowley. He was knew he was straining Cowley's tolerance with such language, but found he didn't give a rat's arse.
"Dr. Marwood," Cowley said, redirecting the good doctor's attention. "When do you think you'll be able to tell us if this is Doyle?"
"Tomorrow morning most likely. Tomorrow afternoon at the latest. It's going to be painstaking work reconstructing his mouth, but we should be able to manage it by then."
"Thank you, doctor." And without waiting for further word from the doctor, Cowley took Bodie by the elbow and ushered him out.
Once they were in the hall Cowley backed him into a wall and fixed him there with a firm expression. "I know I shouldn't have to say this Bodie, but I'm going to say it anyway. No matter what the doctor finds I don't want you going off on a mission of vengeance. I don't want CI5's reputation smeared by you meting out vigilante justice."
"Vigilante justice?" Bodie spat out the words and pulled his arm out of Cowley's grasp. "What about the usual sort of justice? Would sticking that on the necks of the bastards who did that," he nodded toward the morgue, "besmirch the reputation of CI-fucking-5?"
"No it would not, Bodie, and you know it. But I think you also know why I had to make that clear."
"Why don't you spell it out?" Bodie was feeling sickened and vicious in equal measure, and since the true targets of his anger were nowhere in sight, Cowley would have to suffice.
"Very well. You've consistently shown an inability to follow the rules where Doyle's life is concerned. You've disobeyed orders to save him and pushed the limits of other orders to keep him safe."
"I've never endangered a mission. Not once." Bodie was yelling now and knew it and didn't care one jot.
"You've never failed on a mission, Bodie, but you've endangered more than one over the years. And don't think I don't know it."
"Then why haven't you fired me? Why haven't you kicked me off the squad?"
"Because you've never failed. Because you and Doyle, faults and all, were the best team I had."
"Were?" For even suggesting that it was Doyle lying on that table, Bodie was ready to murder the Scottish bastard where he stood.
"Yes, were. And I hope you'll continue to be." Cowley took a deep breath and Bodie could see him deliberately calm himself, even as Bodie felt his own rage rise and pulse and thump inside his chest. "But think it through, man. You're not nearly as thick as you let some believe. Even if that body isn't Doyle, what do you suppose has happened to him?"
Bodie took a shallow, painful breath as all the twilight fears he'd suppressed came tumbling back to him. Bodie didn't say anything, but that moment he hated Cowley more than he'd hated anyone in his life.
"If that's not Doyle, then Doyle's still missing," Cowley said. "Which means who ever set that explosion did it to hide the fact that they took Doyle. And if they were willing to do that, to kill another man to conceal the fact that they have Doyle, then what else would they be willing to do?"
No longer able to stand still, Bodie started pacing the narrow corridor. "Christ," he said, even as he restrained himself from putting a clenched fist through the wall. Broken bones would help no one, least of all Doyle.
Bodie started as Cowley put a hand lightly on his arm.
"I need you thinking, Bodie. And more important, Doyle needs you thinking."
"If he's still alive."
"Even if he's not, would you want to do less than your best to find his killers?"
And Cowley had him there.
"Fine." Bodie made that one syllable as short as he could, not trusting himself to say more.
"I can count on you?"
"Yes." Bodie moved away from Cowley's hand. "You bloody know you can."
"Good," Cowley said, but for someone who'd got what he wanted he looked remarkably unhappy. "Now come on. We'll go back to headquarters and trace Doyle's movements for the last twenty-four hours."
"Yes, sir." Bodie followed Cowley's back, concentrating only on what he could do to solve the mystery Doyle had left them. Grief and anxiety would be put aside for the moment, as would all thought of what he might do in a world without Doyle. Time enough to consider that if the worst came to pass and he was left with nothing but a bare plot of earth holding Doyle's bones and the fool's game of wondering what might have been if he'd damned the consequences and tried it on with Doyle.
The next day at noon, Bodie found himself in the CI5 rest room, foot sore and exhausted and with no more clue about what had happened to Ray Doyle than he'd had the previous day. It had been easy enough for Cowley to propose tracking Doyle's steps before his disappearance, but there had been fuck all actual evidence to work with.
Bodie had last seen Doyle that evening, when Doyle had dropped him off at his flat. Doyle had pressed him a bit about his plans, and, given that those plans were to find a willing man to fuck, Bodie had put him off. Ray'd been in a bit of a funk as he'd driven off. Silly sod never did well when he didn't get his way.
Then again, thinking about it, Bodie realized that Doyle had been in a bit of a funk for a while now. He'd been off his game when it came to ribbing Bodie. Hadn't been much for going out, either, apart from a few evenings at the pub with Bodie. Bodie wasn't even sure when he'd last pulled a bird. Kept claiming he was too tired or couldn't be bothered. Had he known something he wasn't telling Bodie? Did he have some idea what might happen to him?
Bodie wasn't sure. But what he was sure about was that after Doyle had left him at his flat, he seemed to disappear from the face of the earth. None of his neighbours had seen him come or go. He hadn't been to his local or the shops in his area. He hadn't called any of the birds Bodie knew he'd seen in the last six months. Bodie'd pinched Doyle's little book from his flat and called them all, every last one.
None of them had seen Ray for ages and all had been surprised to hear from Bodie. A few, the ones Bodie had liked anyway, asked if Ray was all right. Bodie had lied and said yeah, he'd just gone off on vacation without letting anyone know where and they needed to clear up some of his files at work. They all knew he and Bodie worked together, and they had all been at the mercy of Doyle getting called in at odd hours, so none of them had thought his call too peculiar.
He stopped in at headquarters with his non-information, only to have Cowley send him on another errand: checking Doyle's known grasses. He ran into a few other agents--Anson, Susan, even Stuart--who'd all been drafted by Cowley to find out what they could about Doyle. Some had canvassed the neighbourhood of the explosion hoping to run across a local insomniac who might have seen something, some had already started tracking down Doyle's informants, but no one'd had any more luck than Bodie.
Bodie spent the night in some of London's more unsavoury corners looking for the various no-hopers that Doyle got information from. The ones he could find weren't too pleased to see him. None of them admitted to calling Doyle, nor of having heard anything about what Donal McGann might be up to.
Some time before sunrise, Bodie had come in to headquarters to grab a quick kip in the rest room. He'd headed out again a couple of hours later, when Murph had stumbled into the room searching for a place to lay down his head. Bodie'd spent four more hours on the streets and come up with precisely nothing before admitting that he was past the point where he could do any good without a proper night's sleep and a decent meal. But he still didn't want to go home, so he'd returned to CI5.
Which was where he found himself, stretched out on the clapped out sofa someone had donated to the rest room years ago, staring at the plaster peeling off the ceiling and wondering if he was ever going to see Doyle, living or dead, again.
And it was in that state of mind that Cowley found him.
"Bodie, I need to talk to you." Cowley rapped out the words in his usual impatient manner. Bodie was so knackered he didn't even take the time to analyze Cowley's tone of voice, he simply stood and followed his boss to his office.
Once there, Cowley pointed him to a chair, poured them both a generous helping of adequate scotch, and began to talk.
"I've heard from Dr. Marwood."
Bodie was suddenly wide awake, the scotch settling like liquid mercury in his stomach.
"What's his verdict?" Bodie asked, not knowing if he wanted his question answered or not.
"He doesn't have one."
"What?"
"According to the good doctor, there is no way to positively identify the body we found. The teeth were too badly destroyed to check the dental records."
"What about broken bones? Surely Ray's had a few."
"Doyle's had a few cracked ribs over the years, as had the body. But doctors don't consider broken ribs serious enough to x-ray, so we have no record of which ones Doyle broke." Cowley pursed his lips. "That's a flaw in our record keeping which has now been corrected. I'm ordering every agent to have x-rays done after every break, no matter how minor."
"Doesn't help us with Doyle, though, does it." Bodie couldn't help but feel bitter that Cowley was making policy decisions while Bodie didn't know if his partner was alive or dead.
"No it doesn't. And I'm sorry about that, Bodie. Truly I am." Bodie's bitterness evaporated in the face of Cowley's obvious sympathy. But with the bitterness gone, Bodie wasn't sure what he felt. Grief? Anger? Emptiness? He felt like a balloon that had been blown up too much, ready to burst into far, far too many pieces at any moment.
"Christ." Bodie clenched his jaw and felt his hand tighten around the glass in his hand. "So we'll never know." He found he couldn't meet Cowley's eyes.
"Not unless Doyle turns up."
"Alive or dead."
"Alive or dead," Cowley agreed.
Bodie wanted nothing more than to pull back his arm and hurl the glass in his hand through Cowley's window. Destroying something seemed the best way to deal with the turmoil that roiled through his mind, that churned in his gut. But instead he placed the glass very, very carefully on Cowley's desk.
"Bodie?"
"What have you told Doyle's family?" Bodie'd met Ray's sister, Meg, a few times, and had been to dinner at his mum's in Derby once or twice. He always found it hard to believe that such an ordinary, likeable family had produced such a sarky scruff as Doyle. He didn't like to think of them going through what he was feeling.
"Nothing as yet. I was waiting for Dr. Marwood's findings. I didn't think there was any reason to worry them if it wasn't Doyle."
"And now?"
"Now I'll tell them the truth."
"And the body?"
"I'm ordering it held for a while yet. But if Doyle's family want to claim it..." Cowley didn't continue and Bodie didn't prompt him. Bodie didn't envy Meg and Mrs. Doyle that decision.
"And what about you, Bodie?" Cowley called him back from his unquiet thoughts.
"What about me?"
"Can I count on you to work this case?" Cowley paused and leaned forward across his desk. "Are you all right?"
Bodie nearly laughed. George Cowley being considerate of one of his agent's feelings had to be a sign of the coming apocalypse. But he didn't laugh. In fact he didn't think he'd feel like laughing again for a good long time.
"Told you before, I want justice for the bastards who did this. Nothing's going to stop me from seeing they get it. And…" Bodie had to stop for a moment. He suddenly found his throat had become too narrow for the words to get through.
"And?" Cowley encouraged.
"And maybe, just maybe, Doyle is still out there." Bodie clenched his right hand into a fist so tight that he could feel his fingernails bite into the palm of his hand. "And if he is, I'm going to find him."
Another day and Bodie was just about ready to admit defeat. They'd tracked down nearly every grass Doyle had ever talked to, he and Cowley's other agents. They'd even talked to a few that hadn't seen Doyle since he was a bright young copper in uniform. But no one knew anything. Not that they were telling. And Bodie was pretty sure that they'd all told what they knew.
No one knew anything about the explosion. No one knew if someone had his sights on Doyle. No one knew a fucking thing.
Bodie leaned back against the headrest of his Capri and closed his eyes for a moment. He'd slept even less last night than the night before, and it was beginning to catch him up. Didn't help that he was beginning to feel a deep, draining exhaustion in his limbs that had nothing to do with his sleepless nights and everything to do with the absence of Ray Doyle from his side.
Fucking bastard, to go and leave him like this. He'd kill him if he ever saw him again.
Sitting there, Bodie could feel his body relax with the beginnings of sleep and found he didn't have the energy to fight it any more. Sleep was an enemy and it took him there, parked in a less savoury part of the Embankment. It didn't soothe, but taunted him with images of fire and darkness. It mocked him with a vision of Doyle laughing until he screamed and transformed into the burned horror Bodie'd seen in the morgue.
Bodie awoke with a start, a sick taste in the back of his throat, and a beeping in his ear that turned out to be his R/T.
"3.7."
"You always take forever to answer, Bodie?"
"Sod off, Henderson. What do you want?"
"Cowley's turned up some new information."
Bodie's spine straightened and he frowned at the R/T in his hand. "What is it?"
"He finally got Doyle's phone records. He got a call from a phone box in Stepney just before he contacted me. That mean anything to you?"
"Might do." It was a slim enough lead, but Bodie saw where it might take him.
"You going to fill me in?"
"Doyle had a grass in Stepney, Charlie Teale."
"Doyle had plenty of grasses. I thought none of them knew anything."
"Charlie Teale happens to be the only one no one's been able to find."
"Things don't look good for Charlie Teale, then."
"Not when I find him, they won't."
"You'll have to wait for that."
"No I bloody won't."
"Yeah, you will. Cowley's ordered all agents in for a briefing on the Doyle situation."
"I already know about the Doyle situation."
"All agents, Bodie. He made me promise to tell you especially. He'll have your bollocks if you don't show up. "
"Christ."
"I expect the Cow'd want him in too, if he was part of CI5."
"Sod off, Henderson," Bodie said by way of signing off. He thumbed off his R/T far harder than necessary and threw it onto the passenger seat, the place Doyle should have been sitting. The place where he'd soon be sitting again, if Charlie Teale could be found and if Bodie had any say in the matter.
On to Part Two.