Happy Dec 4th! - Part One

[magenta-blue.livejournal.com]

Hello! Again!

My prompt was mulligatawny soup... It hasn't got the best of titles, as all I have called it for the last two weeks is 'soup fic', then 'that old soup fic' and finally 'agh end! end! Die soup fic die!' *g*

So the title might change, but I really hope you like - it comes in two parts... And merry christmas!

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With many thanks to Slantedlight for being such a patient beta, and keeping this all on track. Any mistakes you spot are mine, added afterwards.

*****

SOUP

“Bodie?”

 

No answer.

 

“Bodie!”

 

Still no answer was forthcoming from behind a well-thumbed copy of The Sun.

 

“Oi cloth ears!” Doyle flumped himself down onto the tatty settee beside his partner and tugged the newspaper down to see what had him so engrossed. Fully expecting the buxom lovely of the day, he was surprised to see instead the comic strip and quiz section.

 

Bodie looked up and around, tongue caught between his teeth. “Hmm?”

 

Doyle tapped the paper. “What’s got you so hooked here then?”

“New game they’re running - ‘famous quotes from films’. I was doing quite well, got fourteen so far.”

 

“Fourteen!” scoffed Doyle. “How many are there?” He sat back, wearily resting his head for a second against the settee before looking at Bodie. “Go on then, test me.”

 

“We haven’t got all day.” Bodie made a show of checking his watch.

 

“Berk!” Doyle pushed his shoulder. “Go on, we’ve got time. If you got fourteen right and the only thing you watch are shoot-em-ups, I think I’ll get there.”

 

“I don’t just watch shoot-em-ups!” Bodie was high on his dignity. “I watch other things too. Like, football.”

 

“So ‘famous quotes from films’ also covers ‘Liverpool nil, Everton one’ does it?”

“That will never happen,” Bodie said dismissively, “Not this season. Anyway, now I’ve lost my place.” He flicked the paper up and effectively hid himself from Doyle’s view again.

Doyle scanned the VIP room, empty at the moment and as messy as ever. He held a plastic cup of coffee spluttered earlier from the drinks machine and sipped it gingerly before grimacing. “Gah, tastes rotten this does. Couldn’t find Charlie’s kettle anywhere, I think he’s hidden it.”

 

“Has he?” Bodie murmured and reached for his ceramic mug of tea. He took an ostentatious sip and then ceremoniously placed the mug back down on the badly ringed side table. Doyle stared at him and then stared down at the mug.

 

“There’s a word for people like you,” he concluded.

 

“Intelligent.” Bodie was hidden behind the paper again.

 

“No no, that’s not the one that comes to mind.”

 

“Charming?” Another offering from behind the ‘Election Scandal’ headline.

 

“Annoying bastard, that’s it,” Doyle said with finality and raised his plastic cup before looking at it and sighing. He placed it down untouched.

 

“That’s two words. You said a word,” Bodie peeked over the top of the newspaper with amused blue eyes.

 

“Okay then, just bastard will do. We doing this quiz or what?” Doyle’s boredom threshold was easily breached.

 

“Alright, alright, just finding my place. Right – you ready? Number one is ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a darn.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“Says darn here.” Bodie squinted at the page.

 

“It’s damn, I know it’s damn. That paper is wrong. Givus a sip of yer tea will ya?” His arm was already in the process of reaching across. Bodie held his stomach in so Doyle could capture his mug, and breathed out again as the prisoner was carried past.

 

Doyle took a sip and cursed. “Don’t you put any sugar in?”

 

“It’s got sugar in. It’s got my sugar in. That’s cos it’s my tea.” Bodie explained with the patience of a saint.

 

Doyle let out a heartfelt sigh. “I suppose I can cope,” and he drank some more. Bodie merely raised his eyebrows at him and then went back to the paper. “So, the film?”

 

Doyle set the empty mug down on the table with a clatter. “Ah that’s better. What film? ‘Allo Murph,” he added, as the VIP room door was pushed open. Murphy nodded amicably back and went across to the drinks machine.

 

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a darn?” Bodie reminded Ray loudly.

 

“Oh steady on, petal,” Murphy grinned, looking over at them sprawled on the settee as he reached into his pockets. He pulled a face familiar to anyone waiting for payday and patted his jeans before accepting defeat. “You got any change? Ray?”

 

“Nope,” Doyle said firmly and settled back further into the settee. His jacket clinked.

 

“Oi, I heard that – and you owe me, remember?” Murphy pointed towards Doyle, who turned his head and waved a hand in front of his face in negation.

“He owes me,” Murphy appealed to Bodie, as he walked across. “You tell him.”

 

Bodie remained buried in the newspaper.

 

“Me? Owe you? Nah, since when?” Doyle was instantly dismissive.

 

“Since last week – Flirty Gert, remember? Fifty pence that was.” Murphy pulled down Bodie’s newspaper, letting it go when he saw there were no feminine charms on display. Bodie tugged it back irritably.

 

“Didn’t win,” was the sulky reply from the left.

 

“And how is that my problem then? Come on son, I heard the coins in your jacket rattle from over there.” Murphy planted himself in front of Ray Doyle with his hand held out.

 

“Loose buttons. What?” Doyle tried offended innocence at the twin expressions on Murphy and Bodie’s face, but then sighed majestically and gave it up as a lost cause.

He rummaged in his pocket. “You’ll make a good detective one of these days Murph, ever thought about going into the force?” He pulled out a handful of change and picked up ten pence, which he held out to Murphy. “There, get yourself a nice cup of plastic with that.”

 

“And the rest!” Murphy beckoned. “C’mon, cough it up.”

 

“I’ll end up skint I will. Have to be a kept man,” Doyle grumbled as he handed over a few more coins.

 

“Who’d want to keep a grumpy old bastard like you?” Murphy picked over the coins in his hand and wandered back to the drinks machine. He then bent down slightly to read the list of what was on offer. The drinks machine had only been installed two months and had spent half that time out of order after McCabe had kicked it for swallowing his money and refusing to spit out tea.

 

“He’ll keep me, won’t yer?” Doyle looked over to Bodie for some sign of moral support. When none was forthcoming he kicked his leg. “Oi! I said you’d keep me! Some partner you make, you’re supposed to stick up for me.”

 

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!” Bodie lowered the paper and smiled sweetly at Doyle, tapping him in the face with ‘Election Scandal’.

 

“Oh gedoutofit,” Doyle pushed the paper back and then checked his watch. “We best make tracks. Bring the paper though yeah? Might need something to do later,” he stood up and stretched, putting his hands in the small of his back.

 

“You driving?” Bodie stayed seated on the settee, looking doleful. It was bloody cold out there and he had no inclination to move, let alone to trawl around the streets of Hackney looking for one of Doyle’s innumerable grasses, who may or may not know something about a rumoured arms cache in that neck of the woods.

 

Doyle shot him a look as he stretched his arm over his head. His shoulder cracked. “Not sure you’ve still got a car after last weekend – what did you do to it eh? I picked it up this morning and Jim and the rest of ‘em were muttering about you, sunshine. Something to do with your handbrake.”

 

“Ah.” Bodie stayed where he was and tried to look innocent, an act he could pull off surprisingly well with anyone other than Ray Doyle.

 

“Hmm, I do wonder about you sometimes. I was gonna take mine anyway, Sidney knows my car,” he finished stretching and wandered languidly over to where Murphy was now waiting for water to finish splatting into a plastic cup. “What did you get then Murph after all that debate, eh?”

 

“Mulligatawny soup, apparently,” Murphy looked for a spoon to stir it with and grabbed one from where it had been abandoned in the sink, rinsing it quickly under the hot tap.

 

Doyle pulled a pitying face, “Oh I wouldn’t have gone for the soup.”

 

Murphy narrowed his eyes. “I’m not listening.” He held his cup of soup and started stirring it briskly.

 

“He’s gone for the soup!” Doyle called over to Bodie, who was now standing up shrugging into his black leather jacket. Bodie looked over and tutted sadly, shaking his head.

 

Murphy eyed the pair of them suspiciously. “The soup is fine, I’ve had it before, so just can it will you?”

 

“If only it were canned,” Doyle mournfully shook his head and walked over to the door, Murphy tracking him all the way. “If it’d been canned, then at least it would’ve been sealed. As it is, like powder at first isn’t it?”

 

“Yeah,” Murphy confirmed this grudgingly, suspicion still rife in his eyes.

 

“And Charlie had a slight accident with the soup powder when he was filling up the drinks machine yesterday.”

 

“Dropped it,” Bodie nodded from Doyle’s side.

 

“Spilt everywhere.”

 

“Very nasty.”

 

“But Charlie had a brainwave, didn’t he?” Doyle looked to Bodie for confirmation.

 

“He did. Swept it up from the floor and poured it back in. Said no one would notice,” Bodie grinned engagingly at Murphy, who was now eyeing his soup doubtfully.

 

“We were going to point out that’s where Anson flicks his ash when he’s too lazy to find the ashtray, but by then it was already too late. Still, you enjoy that soup, Murph!” Doyle pushed Bodie out of the door, both of them nearly colliding with Susan as she came in.

 

“Watch it!” Susan glared after them and turned back to Murphy. “What’re they laughing about?”

 

“Nothing, just taking the piss as usual,” Murphy sounded glum as he put the untouched soup down on the side. He checked his watch and made for the door as Susan reached the drinks machine. She glanced down at the discarded cup.

 

“Don’t you have time for this then? Do you mind if I…” She raised it to her lips and blew, before taking a delicate sip. “Mmm, this soup is pretty nice actually! I usually go for the chicken, nice to see there’s a nod to the time of year at least, you’d never guess it around the rest of headquarters. What was that you were going to say?”

 

Murphy coughed back his original words. “Nah, nothing – you be my guest.” He nodded at her and smiled weakly, before ducking back out of the room. He checked his watch again, that café around the corner was probably still serving…

o0o

 

“Is this a secure line?” Cowley was frowning into his red telephone receiver. The man on the other end of the line chuckled, the laughter rich and bubbling.

“The securest I have in this embassy. Although, with recent events, perhaps I should be calling you from the box down the road, yes?”

 

“Perhaps you should, Mr Biebermann.” Cowley’s voice was dry and serious. “However, I have not received any reports that indicate your man knows he is under suspicion, indeed, his routine has not altered. You have kept our conversation secret?”

 

“Only my Ambassador, Hirschfield, knows I have consulted with you. And please, Mr Cowley, call me Asher. A man that saves another’s life is welcome without formality.”

 

“Thank you, uh, Asher.” The casual name sounded stilted on Cowley’s lips, and he hastened to get to his main objective. “Is there any doubt at your end that Ravid Shar is the man we should be focusing on?”

 

“I am sad to say, none whatsoever. He is very careful, but we have traced him to the rebels in our country, and he regularly makes trips on embassy business from here to my country in a private jet, with full diplomatic immunity. You understand how embarrassing this is, how this could look to the regime in power? As if their own embassy is against them – no, this is not good, not good at all. We need to deal with this problem as discreetly as we can, which is why I need you, Mr Cowley.”

 

“My men are working on it, believe me, Mr Biebermann - Asher,” Cowley corrected himself, “it suits us all to be discreet in such matters. Now, Ravid Shar, as you say, is careful and his bank accounts both here and back in Israel are all correct and above board. However, we have uncovered information suggesting that there is a third account which leads to Switzerland. Mr Shar is a very wealthy man.”

 

“Ah… and we have evidence of this? I need to present evidence, otherwise I may as well be puffing hot air. I want photographs of Ravid with the arms suppliers, I want evidence of his betrayal. I trust you can provide this, Mr Cowley?”

 

“We’ll provide. You are not the only one who wants to know who these arms dealers are…”

 

o0o

 

 

The gold Capri was parked up on a quiet road off Mare Street, with the rakish exterior of The King’s Head (including main exits and alleyway from the back) nestled nicely within Bodie and Doyle’s view.

Sidney Foster was in there, ear to the ground. It was what he did best, ferreting around for scraps of information and looking innocent should anyone ask any questions. Annoyingly, his innocent look could also extend their way. They’d eventually picked him up at the bookies on the high street where first he pretended to forget who they were, before agreeing that a cup of tea at the Market caff would do very nicely, as long as ‘yer mate there could stop twisting me arm orf’.

Nursing a brew sweet enough to rot your teeth in one sip, he’d finally let on that he’d heard rumour of a job going down, a big job, one that might have something to do with an arms cache. Trouble was, he needed a bit more information to be certain, and he knew where to go drinking to get it, only he’d had a bad run of luck on the gee gee’s and was skint. Couldn’t go into that boozer asking for a glass of water and still hope to get out in one piece. But if CI5 were interested now and had a bit of spare change…

 

…And so they were sitting out here freezing their arses off waiting for Sid outside The King’s Head.

 

“Knew I should only’ve given him a quid,” Doyle grumbled as he shifted position in a bid to stretch his legs.

 

“It’s your soft heart, Doyle,” Bodie said, not moving from where he was leaning back against the car seat.

 

“Soft head, more like, any longer and I’m going in there to haul him out by his collar.”

 

Bodie glanced over at him. “Cool it, Ray. We’ll spot him soon enough when he makes a move.”

 

“That’s if he’s not attempting to drink the barrel dry.”

 

“And we can trust him can we?”

 

“Yeah, he’s alright is Sid, a bit shifty to pin down maybe but once you do he usually comes through with the goods. He’s done it before. And he knows the more he does it the less he gets nicked, so it suits all of us, doesn’t it?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, small time stuff,” Doyle screwed up his nose slightly and shook his head, implying that whatever Sidney got up to in his spare time, it was things they could easily overlook in return for a few favours.

 

“The people you know,” Bodie said comfortably, settling further into his seat and sprawling his legs. Condensation from their breath was steaming up the windscreen slightly, but for all that they could still see the pub clearly. It was the sort with heavy nets hung at its windows, so there wasn’t a chance of knowing what sort of establishment it was until you pushed open the door, although it was a fairly good bet that it wasn’t the type to serve cocktails.

 

The main door suddenly opened, and the streetlight lit up the exiting man’s face for a second, revealing prominent eyebrows and a look of satisfaction. Bodie and Doyle, who had both tensed, relaxed again as the stranger strode away.

 

Doyle tapped the steering wheel impatiently as he scanned the darkening street, and sighed into the cold air. “So go on then, finish telling me. There was you, that air hostess and her friend, and they both said they’d never done it before?”

 

Bodie smirked at the memory of the weekend, good humour restored in a blink. He faced his partner. “That’s right, although they’d always wanted to give it a go y’know? Seen it in some film, can’t remember which one…”

 

“Not one of the fourteen then?” Doyle grinned wickedly, streetlight shining off his teeth.

 

“Har har. You still have to take your turn yet, I bet you don’t get fourteen. You don’t watch anything worthy of a quote for a start, just all that art school drivel.”

 

Doyle turned in his seat. He contemplated Bodie with amused detachment for a second and then turned back to face the pub. “Don’t mock what you don’t understand, Bodie.”

 

“Oh I understand alright. I understand they’re as boring as hell, that’s what I understand.”

 

“I’ll remind you of that next time you’re so engrossed you don’t even eat your popcorn.” Doyle tipped a sweet smile his way.

 

Bodie had the grace to look a little sheepish. “Yes, well, anyway, do you want to hear about my weekend?”

 

“Yeah carry on – you, trolley dolly and her mate. They’d seen a film…”

 

“Well Sandy had. You remember Sandy don’t you? Big… eyes. She was really up for it. And I said, modestly of course…” Bodie paused for the expected re-joiner.

 

“But of course.” Doyle was happy to supply and could do so on auto pilot if required.

 

“…that I could show them how it’s done, y’know, give them a few tips. Seemed a good idea at the time…”

 

“Well it always does, at the time, it’s afterwards you’ve got to worry about.”

 

“You tell me that now. Sandy was alright, just about, but her mate Babs - got an arm on her like a wrestler! She’d give Towser a run for his money! Seriously mate, I thought she was going to pull it right off.”

 

Doyle chuckled dirtily. “Amazing what you get up to of a weekend when I’m away. The Cow would have your guts for garters, mate.”

 

“The Cow in garters, I didn’t know that is where your thoughts ran Raymond. Although I’ve had my suspicions recently… OW!” Bodie rubbed his thigh ruefully.

 

Doyle replaced his hand on the steering wheel and continued tapping. “So I presume you didn’t tell the Cow that you buggered the handbrake skidding around the Co-op car park with Sandy and Babs then?”

 

“’Course not!” Bodie was affronted. “I told him you were driving. Oi, where’s he think he’s off to?” He shot from the car and started running up the road after the suddenly disappearing figure of Sid.

 

Oh you wait. Doyle slammed the car door and hared off after Bodie down the dark street. The wind gusted icily in his face as he skidded around the corner opposite the pub and saw Bodie three streetlights down, pushing a cringing figure up against a wire fence. Doyle caught up to them just as Bodie leaned his forearm across Sid’s neck.

 

Sid slid his eyes to Doyle as he arrived and looked as if the Seventh Cavalry had turned up to rescue him. “Here Mr Doyle, I’m on your side, tell ‘im I’m on your side…” He choked as Bodie pushed harder.

 

“So that’s why you were trying to do a bunk eh? Because you’re on ‘our side’?” Bodie was at his most menacing, a strong black-clad figure, nothing of the joker remained. Sid looked like he was about to croak his last.

 

“Bodie,” Doyle tapped Bodie’s jacket, “let him go.”

 

Bodie scowled and dropped his arm, leaving Sid rubbing his neck and gasping. As he straightened he said huskily, “Thanks Mr Doyle, knew you’d see sense…AGH!”

 

Doyle had him by the throat.

 

“What did you think we were waiting for, Christmas? We want that information now Sidney, not tomorrow, not next week, but now, do you understand me?”

 

Sid’s eyes were huge. A little shifty rat of a man, he moved his head a fraction in what Doyle interpreted as a nod and in return, relaxed his hold a little.

 

“Okay, okay Mr Doyle. Don’t get mad. Just let’s walk away from the pub a little eh? Makes me nervous being so close. A bloke can lose his head around here depending on who 'e's seen talking to, and you two are definitely in the wrong camp!”

 

Bodie caught Doyle’s eye and turned away to hide a sudden grin.

 

“Alright, but any funny business and you won’t be laughing,” Doyle tried to straighten his face as they walked down the street, Bodie keeping to the kerb as Doyle stayed in step with Sid.

Sid pulled his collar straight and eyed his two companions. “I could put in for a new coat y’know.”

 

“And we could put you in prison.” Bodie sounded amused.

 

“Okay, point taken, no harm meant, eh fellers? All friends ‘ere, ain’t we?” Sid said morosely.

 

They turned left, crossed the road and slipped down a narrow alleyway linking one estate to the next. 

“We're waiting,” Doyle pulled his green jacket closer around him in a bid to stave off the December night, his breath visible in the crisp air.

 

Sid eyed the path ahead and checked back over his shoulder. “Harry Reynolds was in there, boasting that he was doing a job for Sonny Peterson.”

 

“The Petersons?” Doyle exchanged a quick glance with Bodie; the surname was as well known as Kray in certain parts of London, except the Petersons were more into the arms trade than gangland turf wars.

 

“Yeah them’s the ones. ‘E was bragging about it, not too clever I thought but then what do I know eh?”

 

“We’re hoping you know a lot more than that, for a start,” Bodie murmured.

 

Sid shot him a glance. “’M telling you aren’t I? Never bloody happy you lot.”

 

“Go on, Sid,” Doyle gave Bodie a look that clearly said ‘Cool it’.

Bodie pulled a face back at him and buttoned the collar of his jacket, a move Doyle interpreted as ‘Message understood loud and clear but don’t draw it out too long, sunshine, I’m freezing’.

Doyle quirked his lips and looked sternly back at Sid. “So he was bragging, eh?”

 

“That’s right, still this ain’t the first job ‘e’s done for Sonny Peterson, ‘e’s mentioned doing a job for ‘im before, a while back. I remember these things y’see Mr Doyle, I’ve got a long memory for stuff what’s gone on around ‘ere.”

 

They skirted another estate, Bodie eyeing some kids hidden in the gloom of a concrete stairwell. A lighter flared for a second and then a small red glow passed between hands. Only one of them bothered to look up as they passed, a lank haired female in a bomber jacket, glaring in defiance before turning back to her more important business of smoking weed.

 

“What job did he say it was?” Doyle was thoughtful.

 

“Well ‘e didn’t say, not directly. Just let it be known who ‘e’d been working with. Still, I reckon it will be a clean up job though, that’s what Reynolds does.”

 

“What, removal?”

 

“Or disposal?” Bodie asked.

 

“Like I said lads, ‘e didn’t say and I didn’t like to ask,” Sid scanned the empty street as they crossed the road. The air seemed expectant, as if the night was waiting for something. A faint rumble in the distance heralded the prospect of worse weather to come.

 

Doyle pulled a face at Bodie. “Harry Reynolds - name rings a bell. Wasn't he the bloke that stabbed some MP jogging in the park?”

 

“Don’t jog meself, bad for the ticker,” Sid hacked and coughed, before pulling out a packet of Rothmans. He offered the pack to first Doyle and then Bodie, and shrugged as they both silently shook their heads.

 

“Who was he talking to in the pub, who else was within earshot? Any faces?”

 

The match flared and Sid drew deep on his cigarette, cupping it protectively in his fingers. “Solly’s boy, Davis and one of the Maxwell’s – the older one. A few others around I ain’t seen before, don’t know everyone do I?”

 

“And Reynolds was loose lipped around that pack of vultures? Davis is in Mickey Peterson’s pocket for a start.” Doyle was incredulous.

 

“’M telling you Mr Doyle, Reynolds ain’t got the brain he was born with. Why Sonny asked him to do anything is beyond me but then again, it’s none of my business ain’t that right fellers? Now as much as I like passing the time of day with you lads, this is my stop.” Sid inclined his head towards a cut through on the left.

 

Doyle nodded. “Well you just keep those big ears of yours out and flapping. One whisper of anything, anything at all, and you know how to contact me,” he turned suddenly and held Sid’s coat, all traces of amiability dropped in a heartbeat. “Don’t leave it until we have to contact you.” He shook him slightly and let go, smiling peacefully.

 

Sid breathed again, bloody nutters, these boys. What a sorry life he led… “Anything at all and I’ll be right in touch, right in touch with you, Mr Doyle. Of course…” he mentally added up what was left in his pockets and his eyes took on a calculating gleam, “…of course, it’d be a help if I could afford to hang out in them places, y’know, get a drink now and again?” He looked pathetically hopeful.

 

“Don’t push your luck, you’ve already had a fiver,” Bodie growled, hands deep in his pockets.

 

Sid held his hands up, feigning insult. “Only joking, just joking about that’s all… Christ, you fellers are touchy…” He melted quickly back into the shadows and they watched him scurrying away down the alley.

 

“The Petersons then eh?” Doyle tipped his head towards Bodie, who shrugged his shoulders, glancing down at the pavement. He looked back up to Doyle, his eyes shadowed, pupils dark.

 

“Well if we want an arms cache they’d be the boys to ask.”

 

“Yeah, but I seem to remember us asking a year back and coming back with nothing.”

 

The memory still rankled, and Bodie looked a little resentful at being reminded of it. “I still think we should have held them for longer, we’d have got it out of them eventually.”

 

“With no evidence?” Doyle raised his eyes incredulously at Bodie and hunched up his shoulders. The wind whipped up around them, sending litter flying into the street. “I just can’t get my head around why Sonny Peterson would hire Reynolds to do a job – that’s like taking out an advertisement.”

 

“Maybe that is what he is doing, want he wanted to do?” Bodie looked up at the gathering storm clouds and then stared intently at the shadowed pathways across the road, looking from one to the other.

 

“But why? So you’ve got something to hide, you hire a man with a reputation for bragging to do the job?” Doyle moodily kicked a stone against the wall, the streetlight gleaming off its smooth surface as it skittered down the road.

 

He continued speaking. “Maybe he doesn’t want it hidden then? Wants to broadcast it? Oh I dunno, can’t it ever be simple? We say tell us about the arms cache, they tell us, we get it and that’s the end of it. Now what have we got, a heap of trouble brewing, that’s what. Oh c’mon,” Doyle made to walk off and stopped, a faint look of puzzlement on his face.

 

“Exactly,” Bodie replied to the unspoken question and sensed the oncoming thunderstorm that had nothing to do with the oppressiveness of the sky.

 

“Which way did we come from?” Doyle frowned across the road, there seemed to be a number of options and none of them rang a bell.

 

Bodie smiled boyishly. “Err…”

 

“Oh terr-ific! This is bloody brilliant, this. I was doing the talking, you were supposed to keeping an eye out!”

 

“I was doing menacing!” Bodie was indignant as they crossed the tarmac. “You can’t do menacing and watch for road signs! Besides, I think it’s this one. All leads to the same place around here anyway.”

Doyle was deeply sceptical as he peered down the path leading into the estate. “You sure? Don’t remember seeing that dead pigeon.”

 

“You were doing your great detective bit. You were on ‘higher planes’. C’mon, it’s bound to be this way. Anyway, we’d best get a move on.” He chanced another shifty look at the sky.

 

“What?” Doyle looked up and a big fat droplet of rain splashed wetly on his cheek. There was a low ominous rumble from the clouds. “Oh for fucks…”

The heavens opened above them, the clouds overhead having stored up the equivalent of a Niagara to pour over London. The rain fell straight and heavy, instantly soaking the two agents as they jogged down the path. It opened into a small square, a mini playground bordered by flats for the small inhabitants of the estate.

 

“Well where the fuck’s this? We’ve gone the wrong way!” Doyle’s face was a picture, and not one you’d hang over the mantelpiece.

 

“Nah, it’s, oh fucking hell,” Bodie choked through the crashing rain and blinking, spied a place to shelter. Reaching out blindly, he grabbed the sodden sponge that was presumably Doyle’s arm and pulled it in the direction of a slide, with an inverted V frame, styled as a log cabin. Ducking underneath, the pounding of the rain continued, but under here they were in their own little world, caught suddenly in a moment of stillness.

 

Bodie laughed self consciously as Doyle eyed him and grinned, curls plastered heavily to his head and green jacket dark with water.

 

“I think I could wring you out like a flannel, mate,” Bodie said, rubbing his wet hair and grimacing as a drop of water ran down his neck.

 

“Yeah. ‘S what I feel like as well. God, it’s bucketing down out there.”

 

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Bodie wiped the back of his hand across his nose and sneezed.

 

“Eh?” Doyle looked up from where he was forlornly contemplating his soaked Kickers.

 

“God.” Bodie smiled over at him.

 

“Oh you…” Doyle broke off and gazed through the opening at the rain sluicing down outside. “We still don’t know how to get back to the car.”

 

“We parked it by the pub – find the pub, find the car.”

 

“That’s if its still bloody there… didn’t lock it, didn’t I?” Doyle looked half mad with himself, half rueful.

 

Bodie let out a sound of impatience and turned his face away.

 

“Well, you didn’t lock it!” Belligerence underlined Doyle’s tone.

 

“I was stopping your friendly grass doing a bunk!”

 

“And what was I doing – stretching me legs?” Doyle held Bodie’s glare and then spoilt the moment by coughing damply again. Bodie doused his initial flare of anger, realising the truth of Doyle’s words.

 

“It’ll still be there, it’s not like you left the keys in it,” he said, in a conciliatory fashion.

 

By way of answer Doyle slapped his pocket, which gave a sound of rattling metal, and Bodie nodded and walked closer to him, peering out at the rain still pouring down from the heavens. Small squares of light betrayed the flats rising into the sky, but apart from that, it was as if he and Doyle were the only two people in the world. He glanced at him, enjoying the reassurance of being together in this intimate little world, the very solid shape of his partner, shivering and pushing his hair back in a vain attempt to stop the rain water dripping down his forehead.

 

Bodie eyed him speculatively, with a sudden quiet reflection. They’d shared a few confessions over the years, a couple of things that had made eyebrows rise before sheepish laugher took over, and both had gained a shrewd appreciation that Cowley knew a lot more about the men he partnered then he’d ever let on. Not that he or Doyle had acted upon anything they had learnt…yet.

 

There was more to it than just the rain and the dark, he knew that, they both did. It wouldn’t be sensible to do anything about it, they knew that too, but sometimes, god sometimes he wanted to throw sense to the wind and… It was easier with girls, simpler to stick to girls, but what if, one day, or one dark, rainy night…

 

Doyle spat suddenly to one side, breaking the moment without even knowing. He made a face and poked out his tongue. “Think I swallered a pint full.”

 

Bodie’s mind wandered further, tied itself up with swallow and spit and tongues and… He blinked. This was probably not the best line of thought to pursue, not here, not now. God but he was turned on though.

 

He made a small involuntary movement towards Doyle and then swiftly turned aside, peering out into the night sky. The rain had apparently ceased in its major objective of turning London into a pond and was instead settling for a puddle, gusts drizzling down lightly, shifting with the breeze.

 

“Think this is as good as its going to get,” announced Bodie, sticking his head back in.

 

“Alright Michael Fish, if you say so,” Doyle said, although he eyed Bodie with a mild speculation before standing beside him watching the sky.

 

“Okay,” Doyle made to step back outside.

 

“Doyle?” Bodie caught his arm, the hint of a question softening the rough tone of his voice.

 

Doyle looked down at Bodie’s hand gripping his jacket.

 

They stayed there far longer than they needed to, Doyle staring at Bodie’s fingers curled around his coat, and Bodie with such an intense look, eyes dark, before he released his hold.

 

“Car’s that way,” Bodie said, pointing down a turning on the right.

 

Doyle tugged his arm away and strode out, angry with himself for jumping to conclusions, which translated as being even angrier with the man that walked by his side. “Oh well done Columbus. You sure about that this time, are you?”

 

Bodie narrowed his eyes as he gauged Doyle’s mood and that peculiar expression a second ago. Did Doyle really guess what he’d rashly been going to say? However he kept his voice light. “’Course I am. America, here we come.”

 

“I’d settle for Whitehall,” was Doyle’s grumpy reply.

 

o0o

 

 

An hour later two sets of squelching footsteps found their way down the corridor at CI5 HQ. McCabe barrelled out of the operations room, took one look and started laughing helplessly, holding onto the wall.

 

“Shut it, Cabby.” Bodie was not best pleased. He preferred to maintain a certain look, and he wasn’t entirely sure that ‘soggy’ brought out his finer qualities.

“Shut it, Cab.” Doyle was not best pleased. It had still taken them ages to find the car. He had made a mental note that Bodie’s street awareness skills were crap and then had proceeded to tell him anyway, in no uncertain terms. The resulting argument had lasted all the way back to HQ, while the car windows gently steamed and rain continued to sluice down intermittently from on high.

McCabe straightened his face with difficulty. “You look like a pair of drowned rats.”

 

“I’ll fucking drown you in a minute.” Bodie was not mincing words.

 

“Temper, temper,” McCabe said mockingly just as Cowley came out of his office. He looked up from the file he was holding and took in the three, glancing up and down at Bodie and Doyle in amusement. “Did you forget to take your clothes off in the showers, lads?”

 

Doyle pulled a sarcastic smile, “Very funny. Sir.” He rubbed a hand over his face and shook his hair suddenly, drops of water landing on McCabe who pulled a face and hastily stepped back in disgust.

 

“My dog used to do that,” Bodie said, momentarily uplifted as he regarded Doyle. Doyle glared at him, argument not quite over. “He used to look like that too. In fact, you could be related to a particularly angry red setter.”

 

“If you’ve quite finished, gentlemen?” Cowley tapped his file. “McCabe?”

 

“Sir?” McCabe stood to attention.

 

“Take over this.” Cowley threw the file deftly through the air, and McCabe caught it and started flicking through. He paused at the first page and looked up, forlorn. “You want this set up tonight, sir?”

 

“Aye, tonight. Hassir and his men have moved faster than we anticipated, so I need you and your partner in position.”

 

“In the park.” McCabe’s voice was flat.

 

“Aye, the park.” Cowley’s tone sounded even more velvety, if that were at all possible.

 

“In the rain.” McCabe’s voice was even flatter. He glared at a snort to his right.

Doyle was waving his hand in front of his face, eyes slightly red. “Something in my throat,” he managed to wheeze out. Bodie had turned to face the corridor, ostentatiously watching Betty’s approach but his shoulders shaking with laughter.

 

“Is it raining? I hadn’t noticed.” The Cow looked supremely pleased with the way things had worked out. “Well on your bike lad!”

 

A heavy sigh. “Yes sir.” McCabe went off down the corridor.

 

“Watch out for those drowned rats, Cabby!” Bodie called after him and turned back to face Doyle and Cowley, chuckling, good humour once again back at full mettle. Doyle grinned at him and then looked away, aware he was still supposed to be cross about something but with no idea what.

 

“So what did you find out?” Cowley returned to business as he faced them in the corridor.

 

“The Petersons, it’s nothing def…def…” Doyle sneezed loudly.

 

Bodie took over. “…definite, but definitely err…something,” he tailed off as a larger shudder swept over him.

 

Cowley pulled an expression of disgust. “You want assigning to Scotland, and then you’d know what real weather’s like. My office in fifteen minutes,” he relented as he saw Betty hovering, trying to get his attention.

 

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” Bodie said, as Doyle raised a hand in a gesture of appreciation and sneezed again as they walked away.

 

“Well, he would hardly have wanted me to stand there and sneeze all over his suit, would he? Uh-oh there’s another one coming…”

 

“Oh get in,” Bodie pushed him through the door of their own small office. “I’d rather you didn’t sneeze all over me as well, if you don’t mind.”

 

“Doing me best, aren’t I?” said Doyle forlornly, eyeing their cramped room with displeasure. “Not sure if I’ve got any spare clothes here…” He tailed off, and sniffed.

 

“You can borrow my tracksuit if you like,” Bodie offered, and then pulled a face, crinkling his nose.

 

It was rare they were in here, and it showed. The large desk that they shared was teeming with old newspapers and memos, and the walls were tacked with various maps, gun posters and a few scantily clad females torn from top shelf magazines. There were two tall grey lockers, a filing cabinet that had seen better days, a dead plant on the window-sill and a definite smell.

 

“Something pongs a bit in ‘ere,” Doyle said, and sniffed again.

 

“Oh hang on a minute…” Bodie pounced on a sports bag and unzipped it. He grimaced, looking into it.

 

“What, that your latest victim chopped up in there is it?” Doyle asked with interest.

 

“No, that is the tracksuit I was going to lend you. I forgot to stick it in the wash from the last time I played football.”

 

Doyle peered down at it and looked back up to Bodie. “Hmm, I think I’ll pass, if you don’t mind. You got your muddy football boots in with that lot as well then?”

 

Bodie stuffed everything back in the bag and pulled the zip. “You think if I ask Betty really nicely…?”

 

Doyle snorted in derision. “Remember you only just got out of Streatham, mate.” He opened his locker and grimaced at the squash rackets that fell out and clattered around his feet. Kicking them to one side, he pulled out a pair of jeans and a grey sweatshirt.

 

Bodie had already hung his black leather jacket over a chair and was shaking out his spare trousers and trying not to drip over the mass of paperwork on their desk. He unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt, quickly pulling it off over his head.

 

Doyle glanced over, an automatic response that had come to take on extra significance recently. He appreciated Bodie’s physique, the play of his shoulder muscles as he discarded the soaked shirt, the strength of his forearms. He blinked and looked away, heightened awareness, that’s all. He wondered who he was trying to kid.

 

“You got a towel in there?” Bodie jostled him, peering in the locker and grabbing the one towel on the shelf. He rubbed his head with it and wandered away, as Doyle scowled at the bare back he had just been admiring seconds earlier.

 

“For fucks sake Bodie, what am I supposed to do – drip dry? Geez…” Doyle turned his back and stripped off his sopping shirt, kicking off his trainers.

 

Bodie was using one hand to rub his head with the towel and he looked over at Doyle, who was now peeling down his jeans. Strong thigh muscles were revealed, lightly covered with hair, muscles bunching as he tugged his jeans down further, vertebrae on his back clearly defined as he bent over, almost a ladder for the eyes, leading straight down to... Bodie drew a breath slightly and tore his gaze away. He quickly changed his trousers and with relief stepped into dry soft brown cords, ignoring the faint stirring of his cock.

 

Doyle glanced back, but Bodie was already shrugging into a black polo neck, pulling it down over tousled hair. “Chuck us me towel will yer?” It was in his face before he even finished the sentence. He used it briskly. “Thanks ever so for saving me a dry corner.”

 

“The pleasure’s all mine. It’s been ten minutes,” Bodie said, bending down to tie his Adidas trainers, and Doyle straightened, throwing his soggy Kickers in the back of the locker, where they landed on top of the rest of his wet clothes.

 

“I think we need a cleaner,” Bodie said, following Doyle out of the door.

 

“Yeah, that would go down a treat on our expense chits…can you imagine father’s face?”

 

“Bulldog sitting on a wasp chewing a nettle… Actually, that describes me real dad…”

 

o0o

 

“So, Harry Reynolds has a reputation for talking and Sonny Peterson hired him to do a job,” Cowley looked down at the brown manila file he had open on his desk. In it there were several papers and reports, as well as a black and white mug shot of a man with beetled eyebrows glaring at the camera. “The question is why?”

 

“You’re telling us!” Doyle agreed, walking back from where he had just poured himself a generous measure of scotch. He gave the second glass to Bodie who was sitting in front of the desk, and then slumped down himself. “Sonny Peterson isn’t stupid either, he’d know Reynolds would boast about it, whatever it is.” He looked over to Bodie.

 

“It must be connected,” Bodie said. “The Petersons deal in arms, that’s how they were set up in the first place. Of course, they’re not the only ones,” and here he allowed himself a small smile, knowing the value of having contacts such as Marty Marcell, “but it’s too coincidental to be unrelated. I think we should bring them in.”

 

“On what evidence Bodie? A conversation in a pub?” Cowley glanced over at him, and Bodie sighed softly, reprimanded.

 

“We need more than that, we need solid facts.” Cowley looked down at the photograph of Reynolds. “We need to find this man. Let’s see if there is a reason for his boasting.”

 

o0o

 

“Last known address Wormwood Scrubs,” Betty shrugged apologetically, holding out a sheet of paper. “Before that he was in rented accommodation, a couple of hostels, it will be a job trying to track him down.”

“Yeah, our job,” said Doyle bleakly, taking the sheet of paper.

 

Betty pulled a sympathetic expression, and waited patiently to see if there was anything else they needed, although it was actually quite late and she still had a stack of paperwork of her own to complete.

 

“Useless,” Doyle pronounced, giving the paper to Bodie, who took a second to skim it before tossing it back onto Betty’s desk. Her sympathetic smile slipped a notch as she watched it dislodge a few other papers and the pile cascaded slowly to subside in a graceful heap.

 

“Unless he went back to the King’s Head?”

 

“Well we can try it, but we saw him leave before Sidney, remember? Still no harm in starting there I suppose.”

 

Bodie leaned back on Betty’s desk, jogging a few more papers. The graceful heap scattered even further. “What about good old Sidney? Maybe he has an address for Reynolds? He seems to know everything else.”

 

Doyle pursed his lips, thinking it over, and then glanced at the wall clock. “Yeah, although nine o’clock at night, Sid could be anywhere. The one place he won’t be is with his old lady, you can guarantee that. At least during the daytime the bookies is a sure bet. And I’m bloody hungry,” he added. The cheese sandwiches they’d managed to pick up before the King’s Head visit seemed a long time ago.

 

“Oh, have you tried the new soup in the drinks machine?” Betty brightened - anything to get them out of her office, or more importantly, Bodie off her desk. “Susan says it’s very nice.”

 

“No ta,” Doyle said swiftly, while Bodie just shook his head. “We know where it’s been,” he said, and he walked over to the door. “C’mon Ray, we might as well make a start – you can take one side of the Kingsland Road and I’ll take the other, meet you at that big pub in Dalston, what’s it called, the Angel? See if we can run him to ground.”

 

Doyle sighed gustily and followed Bodie out of the door, leaving Betty feeling a little confused. Where on earth could soup have been? On second thoughts, it was probably better not to know…

 

 

o0o

Continue to part two

 

Comments

[callistosh65.livejournal.com]

Oh my this is lovely; my kind of story - an intriguing, plotty case, lots of CI5 interactions and just the most convincing back and forth between the lads - the moments under the ladder were so nicely observed, loved the frisson there.

This was the best Bodie line: "Bulldog sitting on a wasp chewing a nettle…" I cackled!
(One small typo - "A bloke can lost his head..")

Skipping off happily to part 2 now..

[magenta-blue.livejournal.com]

Fixed! Cheers ;)

And yay for making you cackle! Great to hear, I hope part 2 lives up to your expectations :)

[ancastar.livejournal.com]

I'm a bit late getting to this. Sorry, petal, for the delay.

You have a gift for dialogue that definitely shines through. This:

“I was doing menacing!” Bodie was indignant as they crossed the tarmac. “You can’t do menacing and watch for road signs!"

made me repeat the line out loud and laugh.

That's got to be a good thing, right? :-)

On to part two (but not until lunch, I think!).

[magenta-blue.livejournal.com]

I never said thanks for this - agh! ::bangs RL over the head with a mop::

Just wanted to say thanks for taking time to comment on both parts, and it was lovely to read that you like my dialogue - repeating lines out loud and laughing is truly excellent feedback! Yay!