discoveredinalj | Happy Dec 4th!

And on to part two...

****

“Nah, not seen him mate,” Benny said. “I know the feller you mean though, that little bloke that lives off Kingsland Road in Shoreditch, that’s the one isn’t it? Gave the information for that Coconut Club bust, didn’t he?”

Doyle was sitting with Benny in the Angel, having been pleasantly surprised to run into him, and happy to let Benny buy him a drink while he was waiting for Bodie, especially as Benny had mysteriously muttered that ‘it was on expenses’.

At Doyle’s nod, Benny leaned his head back. “Ah, that Coconut Club. That was one of my favourites that was. Pity…” He glanced over at a bit of commotion by the dartboard, before raising his beer to his lips. “Yeah, pity we had to close it down in a way.”

“So you ain’t seen Sid then? Damn it, I’m running out of places to look. Unless he’s changed the habit of a lifetime and gone drinking further into town, or holed up with some bird – not his missus…” Doyle spoke mainly to his pint glass before taking a large sip.

“Why’d you want him for? What’s happening?”

“We’re trying to track down a bloke called Reynolds…”

Benny put his pint glass down a bit harder than he intended and beer frothed over the edge. He wiped it with a beer mat and guided the liquid to spill from the table to the carpeted floor. “What – Harry Reynolds? The one that stabbed that MP?”

“Yeah, why – you seen him?” All Doyle’s attention was on Benny, he didn’t see Bodie enter the pub, quickly looking around before spotting them and making his way over.

“Yes I did as it happens – he was drinking in the pub down the road, the Shakespeare. Less than an hour ago - holding court in there he was, the barman’s far too scared to throw him out, a mean drunk, is Harry Reynolds. Alright, Bodie?”

“What we having?” Bodie smiled and rubbed his hands.

“You’re not, c’mon – we’re going to the Shakespeare,” Doyle drained his beer and stood up, leaving Bodie gesturing in a hard-done sort of way at the empty pint glass. He looked at Benny, who shrugged and leant back. “Have fun, boys,” he said, lazily looking over at the darts match, to all intents and purposes watching the game, whereas in actuality it was the fat man stepping up to the oche that was the subject of his stakeout.

Bodie followed Doyle out of the pub, glowering slightly. “Some of us are bloody thirsty,” he grumbled.

“And some of us have found Reynolds. Well, to be fair, Benny did,” Doyle corrected. “He was drinking down the Shakespeare and if we are very lucky, he’ll still be hard at it. That’s if he’s not passed out by the sounds of things.”

“Oh, well in that case, it’ll save us a bit of time,” Bodie nodded agreeably. “Which way is it?”

Doyle gave him a sidelong glance. “Don’t you start all that again, it’s round the corner. I’m going to buy you a compass for Christmas.”

“Don’t need one, Doyle, can tell where we are from the stars. That way’s North,” and he put an arm out to stay Doyle from going any further, “and the Shakespeare is right there,” He nodded to the right.

Doyle, who had been about to turn left, grinned and looked over to the pub. “Alright, you can teach me that trick later. Now, how shall we do this?”

“Promises, promises,” said Bodie, which earned him another speculative look. “Err…we go in, get a drink, see if he’s there, and haul him out?”

“Perfect, good plan,” Doyle nodded in admiration. “I noticed the drink in there as well, no wonder you’re one of Cowley’s top operatives.”

“I’m the thirstier one at the moment. C’mon,” Bodie said cheerfully and they made their way over to the pub.

Pushing the door open, a fug of cigarette smoke made them blink for a second, and then they were over to the bar. Bodie used the mirror behind the bottles to scan the room, while Doyle turned around and casually leaned against the bar.

Reynolds was hard to miss. His eyebrows meant he would stand out in any crowd for a start, but he was also a bear of a man and the loudest in the room, sitting at a far table with a motley gang of cronies.

“Two halves of Carling,” Bodie nodded at the bar-man, whose eyes kept flicking nervously to the raucous men at the far table. Doyle meanwhile had turned away, no point staring at their objective when they could hear him so well. The barman placed two brimming half pint glasses on the counter and when Bodie went to pay, Doyle shook his head and paid for them both.

“Knew there was a reason I liked you,” Bodie said, his delight on finally getting hold of a beer apparent. He raised the glass to his lips and took a deep drink, wiping the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

“So it’s my money you’re after, I see, you men are all the same,” Doyle camped, just out of the barman’s hearing.

“Oi! I’ll have you know that some of us are unique,” Bodie took another drink, his eyes again on the man reflected in the mirror.

Reynolds looked up and caught his gaze. They stared at each other for a second longer than they should’ve done and then Bodie looked away.

“Shit,” he said, carefully placing his drink to the back of the bar. “Keep an eye on that will you?” he said to the bar-man, who looked up in alarm just as…

…Reynolds leapt up from his chair, causing it to overturn, his pint glass falling from his hand to smash and slosh across the floor. He lurched for the door, but Doyle was there in front of him, smiling pleasantly.

“Going so soon?” he enquired politely, and ducked a wild swing at his head, pushing Reynolds off-balance against the wall. Reynolds grabbed at a nearby stand of pool cues, lifting one and swinging it in a heavy arc towards Doyle, who moved backwards but not far enough, as it belted into his upper arm, causing him to hiss with pain and his eyes to blaze with anger.

“Oh, now that wasn’t friendly,” he chided, and ducked under the second swing, landing a hard left to Reynolds’ face and following it up with his right elbow.

Meanwhile Bodie was blocking punches from two of Reynold’s drinking partners who had decided to join in the fight. The others had made straight for the door. More chairs over-turned, glasses smashed, and relatively innocent bystanders gasped and tried to move back from the fighting men.

It was over fairly quickly. Bodie’s right-hander knocked out one man, and a kick to the groin followed up by a punch to the kidneys took out the second. Reynolds was on the floor cradling his nose, blood spilling from between his fingers. “Fucker broke my nobe,” he said in shock.

Bodie looked towards Doyle. “You alright?” he said in concern to the way Doyle was holding his arm. “Ray?”

“Yeah,” Doyle replied savagely, glaring at the man on the floor.

“Right, then I think we’ve outstayed our welcome. We’ll leave the drinks, thanks very much!” Bodie called to the silent barman, and then looked down at Reynolds. “Up you come!” He heaved him up by his arm, and Reynolds shouted in pain as the movement jogged the hand on his nose. “Oh stop your whinging, it’s only a nose bleed.”

Doyle took Reynold’s other side with his good arm and together they pushed him out the door, and propped him against the wall of the pub.

“I’ll get the car, “Doyle said, still wincing slightly, and loping off down the road as Bodie surveyed Reynolds with interest.

Reynolds was using both hands to cradle his nose again and he squinted at Bodie with pain-filled eyes, his black brows low on his face. “Who der fuck ug you?”

“Sorry?” Bodie put one hand behind his ear. “You’re not very clear.”

“Fucking… Don’t you nobe who der fuck I am?”

“Well of course we know who you are, otherwise we wouldn’t be having this little conversation. It’s who we are that’s more important, I think you’ll find.”

Reynolds just glared at him for a second. “Well, who der fuck are you den?”

“CI5,” Bodie smiled angelically.

“Fuck.” Reynolds slumped back against the wall, conversation over.

o0o

“I don’t know anymore!” Reynolds was having a bad night. Not only was he the recipient of two spectacular black eyes and a splinted nose, he also had a pounding headache and a small angry Scotsman shouting questions at him.

“I told yer everything, there’s nothing else I can tell yer! The job was to go in The King’s Head and if Aram Solomon was in there to boast about a bit saying I’d been hired by Sonny Peterson. That was it, I swear, easiest money I’ve ever made! There weren’t no job after that, that was the job, to pass on the message.”

Reynolds abruptly shut up, his eyes betraying him. Cowley turned on his prey quicker than a snake sighting a mouse.

“The message? So it was a message, in code perhaps? What did it mean?”

Reynolds glared at him and was defiantly silent.

Cowley picked up an envelope that was on the table between them. He opened it and pulled out a handful of large black and white photographs. “We are going to play a little game, Mr Reynolds. I will lay these down one by one and you will point out Mr Solomon. Are you ready to begin?”

“I ain’t pointing out nothing!”

Cowley ignored him and laid down the first photograph, of a man jogging up some official looking steps. “This one?”

Reynolds glanced at it, and looked away again.

“This one?”

“You’re wasting your time.” Reynolds sat back, one hand tenderly pressing his nose.

“Am I indeed?”

“Next you’re going to say ‘Ve ‘ave ways of making you talk’,” Reynolds scoffed in a mock German accent.

Cowley brought his hands down hard on the table, making the man sitting behind it jump. “Damn right I have! Bodie, get Sparks down here. Tell him to bring the machine and to fill the bath with water.”

“Right,” Bodie nodded grim faced, hearing the beginning bluster of Reynolds as he left the room.

“Oi, what do you mean, what you going to do? Who’s Sparks? You can’t do stuff like that, you can’t…”

The heavy door closed behind Bodie, blocking out all sound, and Bodie checked his watch and leaned against the wall. It didn’t take them long to crumble once the Cow stimulated their imagination, what did he reckon, five minutes? And what would be his prize?

Doyle, naked, with a rose between his teeth.

Bodie stifled his laughter, turning his head away, although his mind lingered on the image his brain had conjured up. The light would be soft, highlighting the golden tones of his skin, the rounded muscular arse…

“Alright Bodie?” Lewis walked past, raising a hand, and Bodie refocused his gaze, coming out of his reverie. He nodded back, and then glanced at his watch again. One minute down, another four to go…

Doyle stuck his head around the door six minutes later. “He coughed,” he said, by way of explanation and Bodie followed him back into the room, where Reynolds was hanging his head dejectedly and Cowley was ignoring him, slapping a photograph of a man looking warily over his shoulder entering the Israeli embassy.

“Aram Solomon! That’s our link!” He indicated for them to follow him, and they left the room, the door closing behind them. Doyle locked it, and threw the key to Lewis, who was returning along the corridor and was on duty down in the basement.

“We don’t need him anymore, but we don’t want him to leave the building for a few days. See that he has everything he needs to be comfortable,” Cowley said to Lewis, who nodded, and then he strode away towards the stairs, forcing Bodie and Doyle to do a little jog to catch up with him.

“Er, our link to what, sir?” Bodie reminded Cowley, rolling his eyes at Doyle behind the Cow’s back.

“Eh? Oh. Asher Biebermann – you remember our friend don’t you? Kidnapped by hovercraft outside the Royal Festival Hall, not something easily forgotten. He is still the Israeli Minister and is even more inclined to be friendly in our direction, something of which we are most appreciative, and something our friends in MI6 are most jealous about.” He smiled slightly, knowing they all felt the same about MI6 since the unfortunate incident of Marikka Schuman.

“He came to me last week with the disturbing notion that someone in his embassy has been using their diplomatic status to cover up a trade in arms, and not for the present government. He had pinpointed one Ravid Shar as the likeliest suspect, but involved CI5 so that we can find out who is trading guns under our very nose. So Anson and his team have been on stake out duty watching Mr Shar to see who his contact could be. Aram Solomon headed the list of possibilities. But it was on the flimsiest of connections - , the only thing we had to go on is that Solomon was a one-time associate of Sonny Peterson, who as we all know, deals in arms despite the fact that we can’t prove it.”

Cowley pushed open the door to his office, and waved his hand towards the drinks cabinet. Then he picked up his phone and spoke briefly with Sarah, who was on night shift in the computer room, asking her to run a check on an address Reynolds had given.

Bodie filled two glasses with whisky, pretending to ignore Doyle’s outstretched arm and empty glass, and then when he did deign to notice it, pouring a tiny droplet of whisky to splash in the bottom.

“Oi - and the rest!” Doyle said quietly, making Bodie chuckle and pour a somewhat healthier measure as Cowley said ‘thank you’ into the phone behind them, signalling the end of that conversation. They both came and sat down, Bodie handing Cowley his glass. Cowley pulled out a series of photographs from a file on his desk and gave them to Doyle, who pulled his chair closer to Bodie so they could both look at them.

They were all of two men sitting on a park bench. Neither was looking at the other, although the series of photographs were practically film-like when flipped through quickly enough – something Doyle cottoned on to very quickly. The stop jerk motion showed the two men sit down, place their briefcases on the bench between them, and then stand up and walk off, each taking the other’s case. Bodie pointed at the last one, and Doyle nodded.

“Anson needs to sort his focus out, bit blurry this.” He handed them back to Cowley, who grabbed at them and squinted through his glasses at the last photograph. Although it showed the two men leaving, strolling in separate directions, the picture was mostly taken up by a girl jogging, in a rather revealing top.

Cowley looked at them disapprovingly over the top of his glasses. “I doubt Anson was thinking of the scenery! But this is clear enough for us, Ravid Shar and Aram Soloman not only meeting, but swapping briefcases... Mr Biebermann will be pleased, all we need to do now is to join the dots.

“These pictures were taken this morning.” Cowley continued. “I believe Mr Shar is handing over the money for the deal, and that Aram Soloman arranges somehow with Sonny Peterson to collect it. I don’t think it was any coincidence that Paul Davis was also in that pub, The King’s Head - I think that might be our connection right there. And once the money is approved, then Reynolds is told to pass on the message that the job is on and where the arms will be.”

“Yeah, quite clever that – if he says he ‘is doing a job in London’ then it’s the London address, if it’s ‘doing a job in Cambridge’ then the deal will be at the Petersons Cambridge house. And so on and so forth; they’ve got quite a few properties these Petersons. So last year when we were told there was a deal on, I suppose we raided the wrong house.”

“Not one of our finest moments, I must agree.” Cowley sipped his drink.

“I still say we would have got it out of them, and I know, I know, there was no evidence, but we could have got them to talk.” Bodie placed his empty glass on Cowley’s desk.

“They’re pros, Bodie, and not only that but pros with a very efficient lawyer. Happily, this time looks a lot more promising. Mr Shar’s Swiss bank account is fifty thousand pounds down. Going back a couple of years, these withdrawals appear three times annually, and each time that amount leaves, it is replaced with a hundred thousand pounds a few days later. Not a bad rate of income."

"Almost gives me ideas..." Bodie murmured to his glass.

Doyle turned his head and tried to hold his laughter, straightening his face with difficulty. "And remember what Sidney said? That Reynolds had boasted about working with Sonny a while back? What’s the betting it’s three times a year?”

“Quite high, I would say.” Cowley looked down at the pad where he had jotted down the information from Sarah. “Reynolds gave this address for Sonny Peterson, which is the one he uses when the ‘job’ is in London. It’s in a residential street, although I suppose it was too much to hope for a warehouse.”

He handed the pad with a smile to Bodie, who pulled a face and passed it on to Doyle.

“Neasden?” Doyle looked up at Cowley.

“Bloody Neasden.” Bodie looked miserable.

“We’ll want front and back, round the clock surveillance, starting tonight.”

Bodie flicked his eyes up to the clock on the wall, a gesture not unnoticed by Cowley.

“I know its past midnight, so for the rest of tonight we’ll need to use whatever cover we can find in the street. From tomorrow we’ll arrange to take over one of the houses opposite and directly backing the property with minimum fuss, I’ll get Sarah and the night team to work which residents are easiest to re-house for a short period. Chief Inspector Dunlop can give us the necessary police cooperation, and for tonight you can have Jax and Charlie, who are also working the late shift. Tomorrow Murphy can take over from Charlie. Anson and his team are working around the clock keeping an eye on Ravid, so we shall be forewarned when he is making his move. Keep channel two frequency clear for updates, and with any luck they will make their move tomorrow.” Cowley picked up the red telephone receiver and that was their cue to drain drinks hastily, and leave.

“Late shift?” said Doyle incredulously as they walked down the corridor. “Is that what he calls it when you come in at midday and are expected to work all through to tomorrow, and probably all that day an’ all? Late shift?”

Bodie shrugged. “When there’s a job there’s a job!”

“Oh very philosophical, Socrates. I’ll remember that when come four in the morning you start whinging.”

“Oi – I don’t whinge! Since when do I whinge? I never whinge!”

“No of course you don’t… Neasden!”

“Fucking Neasden,” Bodie said predictably, and then he saw his partner’s smirk. “And that isn’t a whinge! That is just stating a fact.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Doyle pushed open the VIP room door, saw only Turner was in there, asleep on the settee. He closed it again with a deliberate bang, and they continued up the corridor.

“He’s supposed to be on duty!” he said, to Bodie’s look of reproach. “And he was only in from six, I saw it on the board…”

“Not whinging there, are you?” Bodie grinned over his shoulder as they entered the operations room, nodding at Jax who was talking to the one of the computer operators.

Jax wound up his conversation with a laugh and wandered over to them. “What’s up?” he asked amicably.

“Stakeout,” Doyle said, watching the amicability turn into a grimace.

“What – again? I only just finished doing a week’s stretch watching some diplomat! My girl’s beginning to think I’m invisible.”

“You got a girl?” Bodie breathed in exaggerated surprise. “Oh you are doing well.” He flipped his RT out of his coat pocket and wandered away a little to contact Charlie, winking at Sarah.

“I had a girl, I haven’t seen her lately to check she’s still there.” Jax looked resigned to his fate. “Go on then, when and where?”

“This is the address, setting up tonight as soon as Cowley clears it with the local police, and you, my friend, have the pleasure of Charlie’s wit and ribaldry to keep you company while you bed down in the grass.”

“In the grass? Oh God…” Jax groaned again and took the paper, staring at the address. “Why can’t we ever have a stakeout at the Savoy?”

o0o

Doyle tried not to shiver again. He couldn’t turn the heater on without starting the van’s engine, so the choice was either to sit and shiver, or to sit with a blanket wrapped around his legs like an old man. Not that it was helping, he thought glumly, readjusting a tartaned corner.

The snoring from behind wasn’t helping either. As soon as they’d established the street was as quiet as the grave and the house they were watching was totally silent, they’d decided it might be prudent to get some kip in while they can. Bodie’s ‘rock’ beat Doyle’s ‘scissors’, so he won first kip, bedding down in the sleeping bag they’d remembered to snag from their office.

Doyle wished he was wrapped cosily in a sleeping bag instead of sitting up in the driver’s seat. Even though he’d lowered it slightly, he was cramped and uncomfortable, not to mention it being so cold in here that his breath condensed. Bodie would be warm though, heated up very quickly, Bodie did. And then the sleeping bag would be filled with Bodie-warmth and he could crawl in and close his eyes and just drift for a bit, thinking what it would be like if he and Bodie ever got themselves sorted out…

Eyes open, Doyle! He blinked, and pinched himself. That was the last thing he needed to think about, although Bodie was all wrong about meaningful relationships. If meaningful wasn’t fancying each other, spending pretty much all their time with each other, and still enjoying the other’s company then he didn’t know what was.

He tapped the steering wheel. You’d have to be made out of stone not to fancy Bodie, he reckoned. And there was a definite spark, well, more than a spark, he reasoned. Something… exciting. Something… forbidden. And hell, that was exactly the thing that made it sweeter.

A louder snore from behind him ended abruptly and then continued again more softly. Doyle wrinkled his nose and stared glumly at the steering wheel. It must be love, he reckoned.

His RT softly beeped and he fished it quickly out of his pocket so as not to wake Bodie unless he needed to. “4.5.”

“Sam Houseman. Just thought you’d like to know there is absolutely nothing going on at the back of that house although there was a fox rooting through some bins five minutes ago.”

Doyle smiled, cheering up at the sound of Charlie’s forlorn voice. “At least you’ve got that much entertainment, I’ve been watching a piece of litter blow from one side of the street to the other for the past hour.”

“It’s a fox’s paradise back here, most of the gardens don’t seem to bother with bins. I won’t tell you what I almost sat in twenty minutes ago.”

“No, let’s leave that one to my imagination!” Doyle said hastily. “Where’s Jax?”

“He’s getting some shut eye in a shed, found one with a sun-lounger. It was the happiest I’d seen him all night.”

“Good for him, I doubt we’ll get any sleep tomorrow. What are you working on then if Murphy is taking over from you?”

“Ah. I am being a chauffeur to a rather nice young lady tomorrow afternoon, who is twenty-one and as pretty as a picture.”

“You lucky bugger. How come you got that job?”

“That what comes of working solo, you can’t have two chauffeurs, looks a bit odd.”

Doyle rallied slightly. “Yeah, but partners watch out for you, partners mean you’re never stuck out there on your own, I prefer two eyes on my backs…” He bit his lip, and closed his eyes in horror at what he had been about to say. “Back. Much safer, you can keep your pretty ladies, I wouldn’t want to work solo.”

A loud snore came from behind. A loud, fake-sounding snore.

“Call me if anything changes. 4.5 out,” and Doyle looked up to see a bleary eyed Bodie with mussed up hair leaning over him. “What were you talking about?” he asked curiously, and clambered over into the passenger side, giving Doyle an eyeful as he went.

“Eh?” Doyle’s vision was still of Bodie’s bottom in cords.

“You – given up pretty ladies for me then?”

“And what if I had?” Doyle instantly answered. He stared at Bodie defiantly, wondering which way he’d jump.

“Eh?” Bodie was looking at Doyle as if he had gone slightly insane.

“Ah Bodie! Leave it, just leave it. It doesn’t matter,” and Doyle was clambering into the back of the van now, leaving Bodie staring at him open-mouthed.

He twisted in his seat to see Doyle on his knees shaking out the sleeping bag, and then pulling off his shoes and getting inside it.

“What are you going on about? I thought you were still seeing that bird from the Chimneys?”

“I am!” was the fierce reply from the sleeping bag, as Doyle flumped down and curled up. Now Bodie could only see the top of his head.

“So you just going to sleep now?”

The sleeping bag seemed to bristle, so Bodie withdrew slowly and faced the windscreen. What on earth was all that about then?

He had half a mind to raise Charlie on the RT to find out what they had been talking about, although it would probably be wise to wait for the sleeping bag to stop bristling and start snoring before he started any conversations like that. And what would he ask anyway?

He rubbed his eyes like a child and yawned, before pulling Doyle’s discarded blanket over his legs. It was still warm, and he held it to him gratefully, turning back to look into the interior of the van but the sleeping bag now appeared to be breathing peacefully.

It’s not like Ray had given up girls if he was still dating that small bar-maid. Only he didn’t appear to be that enthused with her, not really, not like he had seemed last year with that tennis club bird, and or with, well, any of the women had had dated prior to that night after the Henderson op had gone so wrong.

God, he had thought Ray was dead that night. They’d been separated in a fire fight, and watching the building fall down around him, not knowing if Ray was knocked out or trapped somewhere he couldn’t reach had been torture, worse than anything he’d ever experienced. And then later, knowing Ray had been stuck around the back going crazy at the same thought, when they’d both seen each other, it had been like, well… it had been like coming home.

If that wasn’t meaningful then what was? He couldn’t answer himself. He didn’t know.

o0o

It had been surprisingly quick to relocate to a house in the morning. Sarah and the night team had found a woman living on her own, and Sally had gone with a plain-clothed policeman to explain what was needed. The woman’s boiler was waiting to be fixed, so she was rather pleased she’d get to stay in a hotel and have a hot shower. She had been reassured that nothing would be broken or moved out of place, and left with the policeman, Sally feeling relieved that no one ever asked for proof, considering the state in which they had left some properties.

So now Doyle was at the window of the front bedroom, binoculars discreetly trained on the house opposite. Bodie had been a bit gloomy that Cowley had expressly forbidden them to eat the woman out of house and home, pointing out that Murphy would be bringing supplies before joining Jax in staking out the back. Doyle hoped Jax had also been upgraded from his shed, although when he woke up at six in the back of the van with a stiff neck, the sun-lounger had sounded like a wet dream.

The RT buzzed signifying Murphy at the back door, and Bodie went down to let him in. Doyle could hear their voices floating up from the hallway and footsteps on the stairs.

“…so I said to Betty ‘Your place or mine?’ and she said ‘Neither’. Still she said it with a smile, which is more than I got last week, so I might try again in a few days. Christmas, isn’t it? Good will to all men. Maybe she’ll show some my way.” Murphy followed Bodie into the bedroom and glanced around him appraisingly.

A poster of Emmanuelle was framed above the bed.

Murphy whistled. “Have you seen her? Bet she’d share some good will!”

“No we haven’t seen her, she was shipped out before we set up. What you brought for breakfast then, Murph? I’m starving and I can vouch that him over there feels the same.”

Murphy smiled, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “You’ll like it!” he said, delving in his carrier bag.

“Yeah right.” Bodie’s voice was disbelieving. “Liver sausage sandwiches?

“Oh no…” Murphy pulled out a thermos, and placed it on the middle of a white dressing table. “I’ve even brought you two cups, just so you can get the full effect at the same time.” Two plastic cups went either side of the thermos. “Well, mustn’t dawdle, Jax is waiting…”

He ducked around Bodie and made a quick exit down the stairs. “I’ll show myself out!”

Bodie went straight to the thermos and unscrewed it as they heard the back door bang.

“Coffee?” asked Doyle.

“Bloody mulligatawny soup!” Bodie’s voice sounded so wounded that Doyle had to tear his eyes away from the binoculars for a second.

Bodie poured it into one of the cups, and eyed it suspiciously. “Do you think he got it from the drinks machine?”

Doyle was once again facing the street. “I think you can bet on it. Oh we’re going to have to get him back for this. Can we set him up with Betty? Convince her to tell him she’ll only go out with him if he wears an elf suit, or something?”

Bodie was taking a dubious sip. He swallowed, carefully. “Maybe Charlie’s refilled the drinks machine by now.”

“You could think that. Or you could think that our breakfast consists of soup, Anson’s fag ash and VIP room dirt.”

“I’d prefer to go with my suggestion, personally.” Bodie drunk some more, and pulled a face. “Think I’ll save the rest of that for you.”

“Oh thanks!” Doyle pressed his hands into the small of his back, sweatshirt rolled up to his elbows. “It must be bad if you’re not finishing it.”

“What are you suggesting? On second thoughts, don’t bother, I can guess. I’m going to make some toast and coffee, you want some?”

“You heard what the man said, on no account to go near the kitchen!” Doyle stopped stretching and was once again peering though the binoculars. “Marmalade, thanks, if you can find any.”

“Don’t know what Cowley was so worried about. It will cost more than a loaf of bread to get a cleaner to clear up the mud Murph tracked through the hallway carpet.” Bodie said, as he made his way downstairs.

o0o

It wasn’t until six hours later, when Bodie was taking a turn at the binoculars and Doyle was sprawled on the bed behind him, reading aloud passages from the book he found under the bed that something started to happen.

“He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came into her. For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering...” Doyle’s RT buzzed and he snatched it up from the bedside table. “4.5.”

The clear and precise tones of Anson came through loud and clear. “Ravid Shar is in a white van heading down Kilburn High Road, turning left into Willesden Lane. If anything is going to happen, I suspect now is the moment to have your guns ready.”

“Right, 4.5 out.” Doyle took his thumb off the button, and clicked back on it again, raising Murphy.

“It’s on, he’s heading this way,” he said to Bodie, and then he spoke into the RT. “Murph? Ravid Shar, white van, heading up Willesden lane. ETA possibly,” Doyle glanced at his watch, “twenty minutes max. Any sign of movement back there?”

“Nothing, no-one in and no-one out. Not even a twitch at a window.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure I like that sound of that.” Doyle worried at his bottom lip and then shrugged. “Keep this channel clear.”

“Understood.” Murphy clicked off.

“Just when we were getting to the good bit,” Bodie mourned.

“I’ll buy you it for Christmas. You can have that and a compass.” Doyle promised, his RT buzzing again.

“4.5.”

“Alpha here. Additional reports suggest that Solomon is with Ravid in the van, as well as one, possibly two unnamed men, possibly armed. As there has been no sighting of either Mickey or Sonny Peterson since yesterday evening, nor Paul Davis, I think we can assume they might also be in the vicinity, or even already in the house.”

Doyle did the quick maths and frowned.

“With that in mind I am sending the B Squad as back up, however they are still thirty minutes away. The fake consensus check instigated by Sally and the local police this morning means that most local residents have been warned to stay inside and away from the windows, and since we have let traffic continue as normal, hopefully the sight of a white van will not raise any alarm. However, grown men running around with guns will, so be discreet. We don’t want to use any unnecessary force to bring these men to justice.”

Cowley clicked off and Doyle threw the RT with force down on the bed. It bounced a little off Lady Chatterley’s Lover and came to rest on the pink blanket.

“Possibly four in the van, not known if armed, possibly three in the house – the Petersons and their sidekick Davis, and a very good assumption they are carrying. B Squad on the way, too late to be useful as per normal, all the local residents are going to be poised at their net curtains like sentries and we apparently have to be discreet.”

“Sounds like quite a party,” Bodie said, and then he continued in quite a different tone of voice. “White van’s just pulled into the top of the road.”

Doyle joined him at the window, checking his gun in its shoulder holster. The van slowly drew to a halt outside the house opposite, and then reversed up the small driveway so it was outside the side garage. The garage door opened.

A man got out casually from the driver’s side, the wary looking man in the photograph, Aram Solomon. In his mid thirties, balding and with glasses, he looked like a doctor or a lawyer in his dark suit and briefcase as he walked around the van to the back, speaking to someone out of sight, and then heading towards the front door.

The man who descended from the passenger seat was Ravid Shar. His face looked triumphant as he surveyed the street before joining Aram.

Both the rear doors of the van were wide open now, and it was just possible to see two men jump down and start to load large canvas bags that were waiting in the garage.

The front door opened and a pale man with a shock of red hair stood there for a second, gesturing inside. The two men stepped over the threshold, and the front door closed, although the loading didn’t pause.

“If all they’re doing is packing that van, then they’ll be in there five minutes max,” said Bodie. “There’s no time for the B squad.”

“Four against seven,” Doyle looked at Bodie, his eyes wide as he thought about it, calculating the odds.

“Four against five, Ravid and Solomon weren’t carrying,” Bodie dismissed, checking his gun. “Bet you dinner later.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Doyle smiled, picking up his RT. “We’re going in. Murph – you and Jax cover the back, we’ll be coming in via the garage. They’ll be five in the house, at least three armed. Ready in ten.”

“Roger, 4.5.” Murphy’s voice sounded calm.

“Let’s go and join the fun then shall we?” Bodie grinned at Doyle and slapped him on the shoulder as he went past.

“Always like a good party…” Doyle agreed, jogging after him down the stairs.

o0o

Later, it was easy to pinpoint the moment things went so wrong.

It was the scream that did it, the high-pitched, deep-throated scream from one of the neighbours as they ran across the road. The two men loading the van reacted instantly, the one on the right using the door for cover and firing straight at Doyle, who dived onto the lawn and rolled behind a bush. Unfortunately this presented more problems than it solved, as he found himself clearly visible from the house. The cracking of glass gave him valuable seconds to retreat backwards and fling himself over the garden wall, before shots were fired from the broken front window.

Being stuck behind the garden wall meant Bodie was alone on the other side of the van. Luckily the second man didn’t have the same quick reactions as his trigger happy pal, and by the time he had scrabbled to his side of the van, Bodie had sighted him through the van window and fired, glass from the window flying in all directions. The man, minus the back of his head, fell further into the garage on top of a pile of canvas bags, and Bodie dropped to the floor to fire at the first man’s ankle. Doyle leaned around the garden wall firing at the same target, his bullet finding its mark just as another shot from the house made him whip back behind the wall.

More screams from behind, a police siren in the near distance.

A gunshot from inside the house.

Doyle saw Bodie dash into the garage, and ducked as a bullet chipped off a piece of brick by his head, catching his cheek.

Guns were firing steadily now. It sounded like a war in there. So much for being discreet!

If he could just make it to the van, Doyle thought, then he’d have cover to get into the house through the garage. He gauged the distance, eyes flicking from the van and back, and again.

Back, and again.

Another shot, and a shout from inside the house that sounded too familiar. Too dear.

He ran.

o0o

The hospital dated from Victorian times, and although modernisations had been slapped on like plasters to cover the cracks, it was still an obviously old-fashioned building. However, the equipment was new and the staff were good, and that was all Bodie cared about.

Seeing Murphy shot before his eyes had made him yell in anger, had made his gun fire not once but twice at Paul Davis in retribution, making sure the bastard was dead, and then spinning around, flashing a horrified glance at Murph bleeding on the carpet before snatching his gun and running through the house, finding the Petersons in the front room.

He held them there, covering them with a gun in each hand, while both slowly raised their arms.

“Your mate’s dead,” the younger one with the shock of red hair said, his eyes fixed on Bodie’s face.

“He’ll be fine,” Bodie said, his guns not wavering.

“Not the one in the house, the one outside on the driveway.”

Bodie held his gaze steadily for a few seconds, not betraying any emotion.

And then he fired.

Everything had been a bit of a blur after that – Jax marching Ravid and Solomon through the house with a gun to their backs, ambulance men rushing in to attend to Murphy, more ambulance men pushing past into the house, Doyle being loaded into an ambulance, Doyle with his eyes shut, Doyle with the side of his face covered in blood…

Cowley had to literally stand in front of him and shout before Bodie even noticed him, so intent was he on reaching the ambulance. Even then, it didn’t sink in that Doyle would be fine, that he’d been shot in the fleshy part of his arm, really just a graze, that the blood was mainly from a nick on his ear, he would be fine… Not until he'd pushed past Cowley and into the ambulance, and Doyle opening his eyes and seeing him, had managed a wink. It was then, and only then, that Bodie could step back and remember everything else that was going on.

He’d been waiting at the hospital long enough for three cups of tea to grow tepid, and he was looking at the loose change in his hand, contemplating a fourth, when Cowley strode down the corridor, jacket flapping, a yellow and black striped scarf around his neck.

Bodie was on his feet, coins back in his pocket. “How is he sir?”

“Comfortable. The bullet went in one side and out the other. Murphy will be off the squad for a couple of months, but with luck he’ll be out of hospital by Christmas. How’s Doyle?”

“They’re just finishing bandaging him up now, giving him a painkiller. He should be out of here tomorrow, keeping him overnight as a precaution. Apparently he banged his head pretty hard on the way down.”

Cowley nodded, and looked towards the closed door to their right. He then glanced shrewdly at Bodie, who avoided his gaze, pulling out a handful of change again. “Would you like a tea?”

“No, I have something stronger in mind. You can join me after I've spoken to the doctor.”

Bodie’s face fell and Cowley rolled his eyes. “You’re not in for a grilling, Bodie! Indeed, I think you showed remarkable restraint. At least you left the Petersons alive for questioning. Although they might have a bigger limp than mine by the time they are walking again.” There was a twinkle in his eye as he walked off down the corridor.

The door on the right opened, and a pretty blonde nurse came out. “You can go in now,” she said in a soft Irish voice, and Bodie didn’t need telling twice.

Doyle was lying propped on the pillow, a bandage wound around his head covering his ear, and more bandages around his arm, which lay on top of the sheet.

“You okay?” Bodie pulled the seat forward. He nodded back towards the door. “She’s alright, isn’t she?”

Doyle managed a smile. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“What? You sure you didn’t get shot anywhere else? Oh yes though, you did hit your head, must’ve rattled your marbles…”

Bodie looked down at where he was holding Doyle’s hand, his thumb compulsively smoothing the skin, rubbing over his knuckles.

“Prat.” Doyle said, tightening his fingers.

Bodie chuckled softly, still looking at their joined hands. “Do I owe you dinner?”

“With candles. Somewhere fancy,” Doyle had his eyes shut now, still holding onto Bodie. “With all the trimmings,” and he cracked open an eye, “and I mean, all!”

“Anything you like,” Bodie grinned at him. “Whatever you want, your wish is my command.”

“Now there’s temptation only a saint would resist, and I’m a bit of a sinner myself.” Doyle smiled and then pulled a face. “I think these painkillers are kicking in, the room looks a bit weird. Murph alright is he?”

“Murph’s going to be just fine. He’ll have to stay in for a bit though… now there’s an idea…”

“Whatsat? Think the light’s spinning…”

Bodie squeezed his hand tighter. “Tell you tomorrow, you just close your eyes and think of that dinner, the foil of the Chinese take away shining in the light…”

The door opened, and Bodie released Doyle’s hand, patting the top of it instead, before twisting around slightly in his seat. “Hello sir!” he said loudly.

Cowley strode in and stood at the bottom of the bed. “How’s he doing?”

Doyle chose this moment to open his eyes and peer at the blurred vision at the bottom of the bed. “You’re right Bodie, he does look like a wasp chewing a nettle sitting on a bulldog!” he said happily, and then lay back, eyes closed with a slight smile on his face.

“The drug’s kicked in then?” Cowley looked to Bodie, readjusting his scarf.

Bodie was trying very hard not to laugh and only partially succeeding. “It looks like it sir. What was that you were saying about a drink? And before we leave, do you mind if I have a quick word to the nurse looking after Murphy? If he’s going to be in here a while, I think we owe it to him to make sure he has everything he needs.”

Cowley looked at him and then a smile broke from behind the clouds. “That sounds like a story to tell me over a pure malt scotch.”

o0o

A week later, Murphy was feeling well enough to take an interest in his surroundings again. Apart from when the stitches pulled, the drugs he was on meant he was really feeling okay for someone who had been shot seven days ago. He had a nice scattering of Get Well cards, including a couple too rude to have on public display, and was getting on rather well with a petite blonde Irish nurse. In fact, today was the first time he felt like he had an appetite, and it was with pleasure that he watched the tray being wheeled into his room.

“We’ve got a treat for you Mr Murphy!” The blonde nurse was smiling happily as she brought the trolley closer, and then fixed the table over his bed.

“What treat is that?” Murphy winced as he pulled himself slightly higher.

“Now don’t you go moving around anywhere you shouldn’t,” she wagged her finger at him. “Otherwise it’s back on your back you’ll go, and we’ll be feeding you through a tube.”

“Oh no, no - I’m fine,” Murphy hastily said. “Today’s the first time I feel hungry, I’m not letting that go to waste.”

“Well now that’s good to hear Mr Murphy, as we’ve been told something special about you!”

“Oh yeah?” Murphy’s voice sounded instantly suspicious.

“One of your friends, ever so good looking he was, although, not as nice as you if you don’t mind me saying so Mr Murphy, he told us about your blessed mother, how this time of year she’d make your favourite dish and about how this is the first year she’s not with you, ah, it’s a cruel world.”

Since Murphy’s mother was on a month long cruise with Murphy’s dad, he didn’t think there was anything cruel about it, unless it was cruel to the ship’s staff who’d have to put up with them.

“It’s a sad time of year to be without someone you love, and you’re obviously a brave man Mr Murphy, so we’ve decided to make sure you still get your Christmas treat.”

Murphy was eyeing the tray, which still had a lid over it. Bloody Bodie. Bloody, bloody…

“So here you go, Mr Murphy, your favourite, mulligatawny soup. It won’t be as good as your blessed mother’s, but we won’t let you go without!” She whipped off the lid, and Murphy stared down at the bowl of soup.

The blonde nurse leaned over slightly. “And we’ve made sure we’ve got it in special, every day, like your charming friend told us. Ah, it’s a grand thing to have friends like that, Mr Murphy!”

Murphy resolutely picked up his spoon and smiled. “To be sure,” he said, and scooped it in the soup.

The End

Title: As of yet, not a proper one!
Author: Magenta Blue
Slash or Gen: Slash
Archive at ProsLib/Circuit: Not yet please
Disclaimer: Purely for pleasure son, purely for pleasure
Notes: Written for the Xmas 2007 DIALJ challenge ‘Discovered in the Brandy Butter’. My prompt for the day was mulligatawny soup. And without Slanted Light this would have been a stodgy old mess!