Discovered in a Livejournal

“The Leatherhead.”

“Eh?”

“Off Jermyn Street.”

“Ah...”

Doyle rolled his eyes. “It’s a club. Not as fancy as some of them, but it’ll take the likes of Maurice Seaton, and apparently Maurice Seaton...”

“... will take the likes of your Charlie.”

“Right. I thought he was settling down, but... he’s a constant enough guest that he’s practically a member himself.”

“Better taste in pick up joints than you’ve got, anyway. Didn’t fancy it yourself? ”

“Sod off, Bodie.”

“I’m just saying... You said he was an old mate of yours...”

“So ‘elp me, Bodie...”

“Alright...” Bodie backed down, hands raised peaceably, threw the keys across the roof of the Audi, and got in the passenger side.

“You know, we could have picked up one of the cars,” Doyle said, accelerating out of the carpark. “At least if we’re reinstated we could have a decent motor.”

“This is a good bit of kit, this!” Bodie looked affronted, “It might have been sitting around in the garage for a while, but there’s nothing wrong with it!”

“And Cowley’s planning a Christmas party to surprise us this year.”

“He could be...”

Doyle grinned, unable to help himself, was pleased when Bodie smiled back at him. They’d track down Foley, find out what was going on, burn those bloody photographs, and then take themselves home for a good long...

“Mind the bus!”

Doyle swerved, clearing the Route Master with inches to spare, and pulled up to park illegally just down the street from the Leatherhead Club.

“The only thing is,” he pulled the keys from the ignition and swung them around on his finger, thoughtfully, “What the hell’s Murphy doing with them?”

Their eyes met for a frozen moment, they looked away hurriedly.

“No.”

“No. Definitely not.”

“That envelope...”

“The pictures?”

“We’ve got the pictures.”

“We’ve got one set of the pictures...”

They sat staring at the elegant steps of the gentlemen’s club, at the red awning that fluttered gently in the breeze, at the varnished door with its neat brass plaque.

“We could see what Cowley’s got to say for himself,” Doyle gestured with the RT.

“We could, or... bloody ‘ell!”

Doyle turned, caught sight of what Bodie had seen. Maurice Seaton walking towards the club with none other than Andrew Williston. Talking calmly, they climbed the steps, opened the door, and disappeared inside.

“Told you – Cowley’s throwing us a surprise party,” Bodie muttered.

“Well he’s got a funny... fuck!” The door to the Leatherhead Club had swung open, and Andrew Williston stumbled frantically out, clutching a large brown envelope, breaking into a fast run, and pursued by Murphy.

“Go!”

"Well I'll be buggered..."

Bodie shot him a look. "Maybe later."

Doyle ignored it, frowning out the window. Something was itching at him. "Maurice Seaton's got alot to lose if he's caught taking dubious pictures at an Embassy ball, you know."

"So? Some people like taking risks."

It had been cramped in the broom cupboard, but far enough away from both ballroom and kitchen that they'd decided it was safe enough. Not as if they were on duty this time, they were genuine guests, brought by - if you please - the Honourable Cynthia Wyndham-Smythe and her best friend Celia someone-or-other. Not as if they were guarding the realm, and dilletante in their duty or anything.

It was almost empty, that broom cupboard, except for a single bucket, and a mop which Bodie ran suggestive and lascivious fingers up and down before he switched the light off. It was small enough to echo, too, so that the sound of their breathing seemed even louder, so that the chik-chik-chik of his zip being slid slowly downwards was a roar, so that he thought he could feel every inch, every atom of Bodie's skin when Bodie wrapped his hand around Doyle's prick.

It was hot in the broom cupboard, hot and quiet and loud and... Bodie kissing him, hard, Bodie's hand on his prick as he pressed himself against Doyle, hard and urgent and... they wouldn't last long, neither of them would, they'd been on duty for nearly six days straight, rarely together, always with other people around when they were, and all he'd wanted was Bodie's hands on him, and his lips, and the heat of his breath, and...

"Where could they have planted a camera?"

"Eh? Broom cupboard. We said."

"No, but..." he could feel his mind racing, nearly tripping over itself in its hurry to work it out, "The broom cupboard was small, only just room for both of us..."

"And the mop."

Doyle ignored him. "...we would have noticed a camera."

"Oh come on, the state we were in, we wouldn't have noticed the Bolshoi Ballet."

"We would," Doyle insisted, "There was no room for a camera in that... those pictures were in focus you know!"

"Wouldn't be any good for blackmailing us with if they weren't."

"Yes, but..." There was something else, Doyle knew there was something else. The broom cupboard was small and dark, and Bodie had danced with Claudia Seaton, and the speeches, and the lights, and... "Cynthia!"

"Cynthia?"

"Cynthia!" He snapped his fingers, ran his thumb across his nose. "You danced with that Seaton woman, and then you came over to tell me what she'd said about her husband!"

"So?"

"So – I was standing by the corner waiting for the girls to come back from powdering... whatever it is they powder. You stood in front of me, and you put your hand around my neck and pulled me close so that I could hear, because the bloody band was bursting into Chatanooga Choo Choo!"

"They were lousy too... oh."

"Yeah exactly. Oh."

"You mean..?"

"The bloody pictures really were innocent."

Bodie took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at Doyle, and they were both thinking Oh shit, and they were both thinking Now Cowley knows.

“It was Cynthia who introduced us to Seaton.”

“Cynthia?” Bodie sounded sceptical, “Yeah, but why?”

Doyle shook his head, he didn’t know. “Pull over.”

“Eh?”

“Pull over!”

“You’ll upset Tom, there’s not much parking around here.” Bodie indicated and squeezed into a space on the high street just as it came vacant, then turned off the engine. For a few moments they were quiet, watching the world going about its business while they sat there, blackmailed and innocent even if they were guilty.

White drove slowly past them, scowling.

“They looked dark.”

“Cheap camera.”

“Mmmn. Cynthia?”

“Bloody Cynthia...”

o0o

The vision of loveliness that met them at the door to Foley's bedsit was clearly less than pleased that they'd made it into the building in the first place, let alone to number three-oh-one, dragging a very short silk dressing gown to a slightly more respectable level, and frowning at them.

"Who's Foley?"

"William Charles Foley," Doyle repeated, almost patiently. "The charming photographer that you're," he looked the vision up and down, from tousled hair to bare feet, "Sleeping with."

"Who wants him?"

"Ray Doyle,"

"Well, Ray Doyle, Charlie's asleep, and..."

"Raymond Doyle!" a voice interupted him, from within the bedsit, "Does he have divine cheekbones and the hair of an angel?"

The young man blocking their path looked Doyle up and down in his turn, clearly disagreeing, but left the door wide open as he turned around and stomped back into the flat. He shed the dressing gown halfway into the room, sliding under the sheets and blankets of a large bed and burrowing amongst them until he could be seen no more.

"And finally my dreams come true again - Raymond Doyle wants me."

Doyle winced, feeling Bodie close behind him, interest no doubt piqued beyond all repair. "Charlie," he nodded as politely as he could, trying to ignore the way Foley was leaning against the headboard, all blond hair and limpid blue eyes, muscular arms and chest, and - beneath the sheet - legs spread wide.

"It's a little early for a social call, dear boy," Foley suggested gently, "And I somehow don't think you've brought us an extra toy to play with."

Despite himself Doyle had to suppress a smile. Foley'd always been able to do that, to make him laugh, even as he watched in appalled fascination. But Bodie - no man's toy, let alone a man like Foley's - was bristling, and so he did his best to scowl back and look unamused.

"I'm here on business, Charlie."

"Oh I wish you were..."

"My business, Charlie."

He had the satisfaction of seeing Charlie blink at that.

"They said you weren't in the police any more!"

Doyle shook his head slowly. "I'm not." He could hear Bodie reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket, waited until his ID was held out, and opened with a flourish. "CI5." And Bodie looked good in that photo.

Charlie, almost unflappable, stared at it in fascination for a moment, then blinked again and gazed back up at them. "Well I am the lucky one," he said, before sitting up straight and eyeing the bedclothes beside him instead. "I think this calls for coffee." The bedclothes didn't move, so he lifted a hand and gave the most rounded area a firm slap, before emerging from the bed himself to stand and luxuriously stretch every muscle in his entirely naked body.

Doyle watched, knowing the show was for both of them, but especially for him, and wondered again how he was going to explain Charles Foley to Bodie.

A pair of jeans and a shirt, flung together, struck Charlie's chest as he stretched, and he clutched at them automatically. "Can't beat a good valet," he said, winking at Bodie and pulling on the jeans. No underwear, Doyle couldn't help thinking, and he was leaving that shirt unbuttoned on purpose. Bodie was going to have a field day.

Unless Charlie came through, of course, and that depended as much on Charlie's mood as it did on whether or not he had the information. Charles Foley always had the information.

"Tell me about the Embassy Ball," he suggested, following Foley across the room to a small sink and kitchen surface.

"My dear boy, I can't," Foley said, pouting, "I wasn't there." He took filter papers and a jar of coffee beans from a cupboard, caught Bodie staring at him. "If it's not drip it's not worth drinking."

"I'll drip you..." Bodie began, clearly out of patience, reaching out a hand. Doyle caught it before it clamped down on Foley's wrist, and glared at him until Bodie shook himself free and turned away, hands on hips. He swung back, caught Doyle's eye, and visibly took a deep breath.

"But you know all about it anyway," Doyle suggested, turning back to Foley, who had poured the beans into a wooden grinder, and was posing against the sideboard, muscles flexing as he turned the handle. Doyle closed his eyes a moment, took his own deep breath. That was his Foley - living in a bedsit, making coffee with a Habitat grinder. When he opened them again, Foley was grinning, and looking up at him through pale lashes.

"Well, you get to hear about these things. Friends in the right places, and all that. I hear you were there, in fact."

"In fact I was. What else do you hear?"

"Well, I suppose this," he glanced sidelong at Bodie, "Was the tall dark one you were there with. They told me he was rather delicious." Bodie took a step forward, and Foley, unusually for him, backtracked rather hastily, "Unavailable, but delicious."

"That's right," Doyle said quickly, before Bodie let his temper get the best of him, "Very unavailable." He held Foley's gaze for a moment, until Foley turned away with a small moue to fill the coffee jug with water.

"So tell us what else you heard."

o0o

“It’s Saturday,” Doyle pointed out. “Civil servants don’t work weekends.”

“Well, these ones do, if they want to stay civil servants,” Bodie declared, clearing a space on the table. “Come on Ray, we’d best get remembering. No way are they having two for the price of one.”

"Not when we're the two," Doyle agreed, tilting his chair back so that he could reach the sideboard drawer, and passing Bodie paper and pen. Then he picked up the phone.

o0o

Two hours and several rather loud phone conversations later, there was a knock at the door and a tousled Murphy frowning at them, pushing a manilla folder into Bodie's hands as he shoved his way into the flat.

"Seven thirty on a Saturday morning? It's obscene, that's what it is!"

"Not as obscene as the Minister's Under Under Under Secretary seemed to think," Bodie said with a smirk, nodding towards Doyle who was still dealing with an irrate civil servant.

Murphy perked up. "Yeah? Wonder who he was under at the time?"

"Doyle's guess got him some answers, so I somehow don't think it was his wife."

"Not with a voice that deep," Doyle agreed, replacing the receiver, closing his eyes, and stretching out in his chair, crisp white shirt tightening across his chest, the clean jeans Bodie'd seen him pull on not half an hour before faded and already creased in all the right places...

Bodie watched appreciatively, until he realised Murph'd caught him at it. "Coffee?" he asked quickly, passing Doyle the folder. "Least we can do after all the effort you've put in!" He slapped Murphy's arm as he walked past him to the kitchen. "All that driving to HQ and having to ask Shelley to pass you the file!"

"Berk," Murph called back good-naturedly, "Had to drive over here as well, didn't I?"

Bodie filled the kettle and spooned coffee into three cups, half listening to the conversation behind him, half racing ahead through the day to come. Now they had the list of guests and a photograph of each one they could track down Doyle's contact, see what he knew. Foley wasn't someone Bodie'd met before, and Doyle seemed half-reluctant to let him out of the bag, so that should be interesting in all kinds of ways. Always good to see what came crawling out of Doyle's past - and generally more useful than not. Brownie'd gone scuttling back in there after his stint on the crane, and no number of inducements had brought him forth again - but maybe this Foley would be different.

"Cowley's got me on a pick up from Gatwick," Murphy was saying, as Bodie handed him a steaming mug, "But he's got Tom White covering the two of you from eight this morning."

"Who was on nightshift?" Doyle asked, taking his coffee from Bodie's outstretched hand, so that their fingers brushed and Bodie felt the spark run through both of them. It was like being a teenager again, this. Ridiculous. But good, a small voice screamed at him joyously inside, it was good. He'd thought that internal grin would fade away if he had sex with Doyle often enough, but it was still there, after all this time - like the way he felt at the end of a shoot out, when they'd survived against the odds yet again. The world was his, and it always would be... He caught Doyle's eyes on him, felt a smile threatening and changed it into a quick nod, turned back to hear Murph's answer.

"Chappell. Except the poor bastard dropped off around three, didn't check in on schedule. He'll be standing in front of the Cow any minute now..."

Doyle grunted. "Kids. No stamina..."

"Speaking of which," Bodie nudged him, eyed Murphy, "Isn't it about time you cleared off and let us get on with the real work?"

Murphy rolled his eyes, swallowed the rest of his coffee in a single, long gulp, and raised first two fingers, then his hand in farewell.

"Foley first?" Bodie said hopefully, even as the door closed, taking the pictures from Doyle and flicking through them quickly. He looked up in time to see Doyle nod, finished his own coffee, and reached for his jacket.