“Ahi! Attenzione!”

The crash is deafening and followed by a shrill scream.

“Accidenti! Ma cosa fai, stupido! Madonna…”

Suppressing a grin, I carry on polishing wine glasses with vehemence. That's the third time in one hour that poor Luigi got in his boss's way, but this time he's obviously managed a disaster. Mamma Maddalena - nobody calls her anything else - is now warming to her topic, although I can't understand a word of the enthusiastic tirade that is pounding down on the boy's meekly hanging head. Honestly, she could give even Cowley a run for his money when she's really got her eye in.

“Ma dì, questo maledetto ragazzo non è buono a nulla! ”

Spent, but still muttering to herself, la mamma now trots out of her kitchen to join me at the counter.

“Do me a favour, per carità, e fammi un caffè - eh, piccino? ”

“Subito. ” Great. One of the estimated thirteen Italian words I can pronounce halfway correctly.

La mamma watches me brew her espresso with sharp eyes that hardly ever miss anything. I realised soon enough why everybody makes sure to stay on the smooth side of her tongue. Her tantrums are legendary, and her seemingly infinite repertoire of insults and curses tends to make even the oldest and toughest mafioso blush like a schoolboy and hastily mutter excuses.

This leaves me inordinately grateful that I don't understand a single word of her tongue-lashings and that I am hardly ever on the receiving end. It appears that la mamma is fond of me, or rather of young Mark Davis, the new waiter her son hired a week ago.

Sipping her coffee and chatting about Luigi's latest kitchen calamity, she looks at me with genuine affection, and I wonder once again what she would say if she knew the truth about me. As it is, she seems to like my looks, especially my bum, which she gives the occasional appreciative slap, and my hair, which she keeps ruffling. She has to stand on tiptoes to do that. I'm not all that tall and she reaches up to my chest at most, though what she lacks in height, she makes up in girth. Round and chubby, her face flushed from the kitchen heat, she's still bouncing with energy and surprisingly sprightly for her bulk and age.

I worked often enough in the past in various Italian restaurants and wine bars to fumble my way through the menu and a few bits of conversation, but thankfully this family has lived in London long enough to speak a confused mixture of English and Italian so I get along without missing too much.

Which is a good thing, given why I'm working here.

Domenico Scarpia, business-minded owner and manager of Ristorante La Tosca, is la mamma's pride and joy. In her books, her son comes directly second to the pope, although on occasion, he gets his fair share of dressing-downs like the rest of us. God knows if even the pope would be all that safe.

At the same time, though – and possibly even unknown to mamma Maddalena – Domenico is one of the major players in various business areas that have nothing to do with pizza and pasta, but everything with white powder and bundles of dirty money. He might not be your typical Sicilian Mafioso, but it seems he has the right connections at least. With the mob at its finest, including some faces our fearless leader would sell his auntie for if that would bring them behind bars.

At least that's what Beppo told my partner three weeks ago, claiming he'd personally witnessed his padrone do shady dealings with some well-clad men he clearly recognised as onorabili. The other two waiters are, according to Beppo, also involved. When he gave us the names, Bodie realised he knew one of them, a certain Angelo, so the odds were high that Angelo would recognise Bodie as well.

But Angelo didn't know me, at least not until I showed up at the restaurant to apply for a job. Luck had it that they had a vacancy, although I must admit that Beppo's departure wasn't exactly his own idea, but rather that of George Cowley who convinced him he should urgently visit his family in Manfredonia if he didn't want to go end up in the nick for his sins.

So now I've got the job and am polishing glasses. My boss is happy with me, the other waiters are friendly, and mamma Maddalena likes me – a good start, and I hope that over time they'll trust me enough to let me get a glimpse of their other activities as well. Without offering too much insight, Beppo hinted at being involved in that, too, so there's a good chance that sooner or later, they need someone to replace his other services as well.

Preferably sooner, I decide yet again, since I've just started an affair with a fantastic red-head named Cindy whom I have now left behind, however reluctantly, with merely a few vague explanations about having to go away on business for a while.

I sincerely hope she won't turn up at this popular restaurant one day to find me serving spaghetti bolognese: she doesn't live all that far from here and loves Italian food. To make sure or at least be warned in time, I asked Murphy to keep an eye on her. I purposely did not ask my partner, for obvious reasons.

Bodie would certainly find it hard to pass on the opportunity, Cindy being gorgeous to say the least. Although, come to think of it, he's been pretty subdued ever since it turned out that I was the lucky sod to go undercover. Well, he couldn't do it, could he? Angelo knows Bodie's face and would have blown the whole op in thirty seconds. He'd never met me before, though.

The back door opens with a bang, startling mamma Maddalena as much as me. With her usual panache, la mamma sails back into her kitchen to give a piece of her mind to the new arrival and, for good measure, also to Luigi who has by now re-emerged from wherever he escaped to after his little accident with a few plates.

Ah, it's Giuditta, la mamma's daughter-in-law and widow to Domenico's brother Cesare, sadly passed away from lead poisoning administered by some rival mobster family a couple of years ago. She and her daughter still live with la mamma, and little Nicoletta often comes in after school. She's a nice girl, and pretty. Bet she'll be a real looker like her mum once she grows up.

Yeah, beautiful Giuditta with her long black hair, shapely bottom and her sensuous lips, cherry-red today. Entirely kissable, and, judging by the looks she gives me, this is not at all a hypothetical idea.

Down, boy! I scold myself. You've got Cindy back home, and provided Murphy sticks to his promise to leave her alone, she'll be waiting for you, all hot and ready, once this is over. Hopefully soon. So far, I'm bored out of my skull. Cleaning glasses and playing waiter really isn't my idea of an inspiring job. Wonder what Bodie's up to and if his day is a little more exciting right now.

Ah, the first client of the day.

“Yes sir, we're open. I'll be right with you.”

Angelo and Peppino should be here any minute. I put on my long waiter's apron and reach for the menu.

“Prego, signore.”

---

"So what's the idea?" Cindy says over her Pimms. It doesn't help that she's licking the strawberry they've skewered to the top in a way that… well…

"Idea?" I say in mock innocence. "Like I told you, Ray asked me to keep an eye on you while he's away. Make sure you didn't need anything. So I thought there'd be no harm in a quiet drink. I mean, he might want progress reports."

She snorts faintly. According to the story I've dutifully stuck to, but one that was arranged extremely rapidly and is a little lacking in the finer points, Doyle's busy out of town on some boring research stuff for his equally boring job in some obscure Ministry. What sort of Ministry employs people with long hair and tight jeans isn't something I'd like to try and explain, mind.

"And he trusts you? You married or gay or something?"

Oh Jesus. The stupid bugger said she was 'unusual', but let's say she's a shade on the blunt side, not to mention the fact that she's rather aware of her charms.

"Neither," I say, my tone a little sharper than I intended, as I'm a little offended and particularly about the 'gay' part. "Unattached. But Ray's a mate."

"So you both said. And he's not been calling me much. Don't they have pay phones where he is or something?"

Damn. Think, Murph.

"Probably all been vandalised."

Oh, clever.

"Vandalised? At some sort of Government place?"

"Don't suppose they let him call from there, love. And apparently his digs are a bit seedy."

"So you know where he is?"

Shit. This is worse than an interrogation, and I'm not used to being on the wrong end of one.

"Well no, not exactly. He just said it was… not a great area he was living in. Actually," I have a flash of inspiration, "I think he's doing something rather hush-hush."

"Oh my," she says, suitably impressed and files that away, looking a bit happier. "Must be more fun than selling used cars. That's what Ray said you did…"

I'll kill the sod for that one when he gets back. I'd already promised him that much when he told me that was my 'role'. There are times when Doyle's sense of humour gets the better of him.

"Yeah," I say tightly.

"Must come to see you," she says. "Particularly if you could organise some sort of deal?"

I hate you, Ray Doyle.

"Not unless you're in the market for a Roller or a Bentley, love."

God, I'm brilliant. I knew CI5 hired me for something.

"Wow!" Her eyes light up. "Must say you looked incredibly smart for some sort of car salesman. I'd love to come and try one out, mind."

"Sorry," I sigh, sliding quite happily into all this after my stroke of inspiration. "We don't actually have showrooms. We just do the special stuff – ordered by VIPs, bulletproof windows and special features - that sort of thing. One-off models. So that'd be a bit hard."

"Mmmmm," she murmurs. "I can just imagine myself draped in a limousine with a champagne bar, telly…"

Well, Doyle, this might put a strain on your CI5 pay my lad, if she's got that sort of expensive tastes.

"Refill?" I ask, rather proud of myself for rising a few notches in her esteem. "They've called last orders."

"Love one," she nods, giving me a particularly delightful smile. I watch her unobtrusively as I go up to the bar, and have to admire Doyle's taste. She's petite, slim, but rather well endowed. Dresses nicely if a shade revealingly. As for the hair, it's a dark, coppery red: he always did like redheads. Although this one is nothing like that Holly woman who looked like she put makeup on with a trowel. Cindy's definitely a bit less heavy-handed with the warpaint.

"So," she says brightly as she comes back. "To get back to you. Unattached, you said."

"Yes," I say honestly. "But extremely honourable. Which is why Ray…"

"Asked you to do the honours," she finishes for me. "Just didn't realise he was the jealous type, or not until he said a mate of his would be keeping an eye on me. I was curious about who it would be, but heaven knows I'm not complaining."

What am I supposed to say to that?

"No?" I try not to make it sound like a come-on, but I think it probably sounds rather like one.

"Definitely. But the thing is, you see…" she pats me on the knee, "I can't stand jealous men. Nor people trying to tie me down. And I only agreed to meet you to see exactly who he'd lined up. I expected you to be short and fat."

"Gee thanks," I manage.

"And it's a real shame you're honourable, Patrick, because you're frankly very much my kind of guy. Corny but true. I suppose you're going to be all shocked and horrified now, and tell me you wouldn't dream of seducing me. Right?"

I swallow.

"Right."

Liar.

"Shame," she says cheerfully. "Because if Ray's really going to be away for weeks, I'm not guaranteeing I can be half as honourable. And if I know him, he'll already be screwing some stupid secretary anyway."

"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't…"

I'm certain he would, that's the trouble. Doyle tends to consider all women fair game, just as Bodie does. I strongly suspect that even if he's sufficiently attached to Cindy to have me keep an eye on her, he wouldn't turn down any opportunities that arose elsewhere, either.

"Don't be daft," Cindy says a little scornfully. "Ray enjoys me because I'm dynamite in bed. To hell with false modesty. He's not bad himself, for that matter. But I've got him sussed, believe me, and he's not really got me figured out at all, or he wouldn't have let you anywhere near."

Oh hell. Now if I was Bodie, I'd grin, steer her out of the door and be in bed with her within half an hour.

"Look," I say awkwardly, "this is a bit…"

"Surprising?" she says with a cheeky grin. "I like to surprise people. In fact with Ray, I play all demure, ladylike, no low necklines and then turn into something else entirely in bed. Am I shocking you?"

"No," I lie once again. She's shocking me all right but in a way that's playing hell with my groin.

"Good," she chuckles. "Well, are you going to report back to Ray that I'm an utter tramp? Wouldn't blame you."

She would have to go and ask that.

"Of course not," I find myself saying. "I think you might need to talk to him at some point, though. Sort of set things straight about… um… how you both think about each other," I say lamely. "It might not be fair to let him think you're waiting for him if you're… er…"

"I could do, yes," she says demurely. "But sexual politics are such a pain, aren't they? I suppose I am a fool for playing little miss faithful and leading him up the garden path a bit. It started out as a bit of a joke and I got carried away. But yes, I'll set him straight. If you don't do it first."

"I won't," I say, watching her sip from the long straw and wondering what the hell we're both playing at.

"But in the meanwhile, I can think of another solution."

"Which is?"

"You could keep me happy while he's away. Then we'll give it some thought when he does get back. And he did say you should see if I needed anything."

Jesus Christ. I'm supposed to be here instead of Bodie dragging her off by the hair and having his way with her, and she's trying to do exactly that with me.

"I don't think that's quite what he had in mind," I say primly, trying not to stare at her boobs. "Neither do I. But at this moment, he's away doing heaven knows what. We're both here, consenting adults, and I find you extremely attractive. It's Ray's own fault, really."

It is, I admit to myself. Definitely.

The pub's nearly empty now, and she gets up, taking my hand. I wish she hadn't done that as I have the feeling I've just taken a rather irreversible step.

Our cars are the only two left in the car park. I just hope the Granada's what a Rolls Royce expert would drive, as she's looking at it.

"We don't get to drive the goods," I say a little defiantly.

"Shame," she says, licking her lips and turning towards me. "Warm night though, isn't it."

It is. And there are parts of me that are downright hot. When she pulls me closer, I shudder, trying not to let her get close enough to realise how hot.

It doesn't help that she kisses like a dream, and she's not only homed in on my lips but also on my erection, caressing it through the thin, summer weight trousers. I should take her hands away, but my own hands are rather busy. One's sliding up inside her top and the other's on her bum.

We totter over to the Granada, parked underneath a tree, by which time she's panting and I'm feeling a whole lot less honourable still. She's an expert in undoing trouser buttons and zips with one hand, and I'm doing pretty well with the single-handed approach to bra hooks. She's very well endowed indeed.

Her hand… the one that isn't exploring my underpants… pulls my fingers where she wants them. As in between her legs.

Then she pushes me away, which throws me completely for a second, but it's only to pull her panties off and renew her efforts with my now open fly and what's now jutting out from it.

"We could get arrested," I say. It's my sensible side coming out, in direct contrast to what I really want. Well, that and the thought of explaining this away to Cowley if we're caught. Or Doyle. Christ. The trouble is, I'm already exploring under her skirt, which at this precise moment means sensible is fast becoming a memory.

"Don't like living dangerously?" she says.

"I think… I could live with it," I murmur, probing a little more. "In the car?"

"I love doing it standing up," she says firmly, and braces herself against the side of the car. "Now, Patrick.

I don't wait to be asked twice, and she reaches for me, guiding me inside her skilfully, getting the balance rapidly. God, it's good.

She was absolutely right in the bit about no false modesty concerning her abilities either, because as quickies go, this is about as erotic as it gets. She's probably a bit bossy about it, telling me exactly how to pinch her nipples as I ram into her, but who's complaining. She even tells me to let go and come – not that I need much encouraging – and rapidly introduces her own fingers into the mix as soon as I stop shuddering and climaxes in turn, even before I'm out of her.

"Nice," she says, picking up her panties because, as she says, she doesn't want to leak onto the upholstery.

I'm a bit surprised by her matter-of-fact attitude as well, I suppose. Most of all, though, I feel torn between being surprised, happy and just a bit guilty as I rearrange my own clothing.

"Don't start feeling guilty," she adds, reading my thoughts. "It was my idea. So where do we go from here?"

I must look blank, and she grins.

"Not as in true love, mortgage and kids, Patrick. This is about sex. I was thinking your place or mine, for round two."

Christ. Does Doyle know she's a bloody nympho or something? And was that my mouth that said 'mine's closer'?

Along with all the other feelings, another one creeps in. One that says that it's not too bad a feeling to have been tested and found a good substitute for one of CI5's resident Casanovas. Even more, it really is Doyle's fault if he decided that good old reliable Murphy was too honourable to pinch his bird, and after all, she's turned out to be the predatory one, hasn't she? What's more, I don't think he'd have thought twice about pinching one of mine whether she was predatory or not - I know full well he's already done it to Bodie.

Poor bugger, though, if he thinks she's demure. Or faithful. But we'll worry about that later – after round 2. Or three. Or whatever.

---

---

Ruthie's a nice girl. And here, I mean nice, despite a taste for sarcasm and a bit of an attitude. I somehow can't imagine her doing the whole seduction scene let alone a quickie in a car park.

God, I was stupid.

And God, she was good. Cindy, that is. Doyle's bloody girlfriend.

"… cow," I catch from the other side of the table.

"Sorry Ruthie?"

"You will be sorry if you call me Ruthie again. Sounds like some sort of mentally deranged bag lady."

I try to look apologetic and wonder why she's talking about our beloved leader in here, but in fact she isn't. My bistecca arrives and it is indeed a little like half a cow, as she finally repeats. As in cows with four legs and a tail.

Doyle's grinning as he picks up the oil and vinegar for the insalata verde with a most convincing flourish and slaps it down on our table, accidentally knocking over my napkin.

He bends down, I bend down, and hey presto, one small consignment of bugs is quickly slipped into the pocket of his apron along with his notepad.

Good things, those aprons, I think to myself. The way he wears his jeans he probably couldn't get more than a credit card in his pocket.

I've been trying to avoid his eyes ever since we came in – just call me a coward – but I meet them now as we both finish scrabbling around on the floor.

"Ta," he says levelly, in an undertone. And "so sorry, sir," a little louder. "Enjoy your meal." He looks amused more than anything else, I decide. Good. Daft sod always did like all this undercover stuff.

Ruth cocks her head on one side and asks if I'm going to sit and look at my meal all night, and I remember what I'm ostensibly here for. I take a long gulp of Valpolicella and slice off a piece of steak.

It tastes wonderful, but I'm not really hungry. I keep thinking that if Doyle knew…

Things improve after a while though, and when Doyle comes over to ask if everything's all right I cheerfully tell him it's excellent. Ruth says the saltimbocca is perfect too. Doyle grins and shimmies off to another table.

"Looks like he's enjoying himself," Ruth mutters. "Oh, and you seen the vampire queen over there?"

I've been looking at all the staff, wondering who's who and trying to put names to faces from the little information Doyle provided. The woman Ruth's eyes were following has only just come in, but she's part of the restaurant judging from a few curt comments she makes to another of the waiters.

"The sister-in-law," I say quietly. "At a guess, although I imagined her more…"

"Widow-like?" Ruth asks. "Well, she is wearing black, but apart from that…"

"Quite the glamour-puss," I agree. She's dressed even more provocatively than Cindy was, in fact.

"If you like them on the showy side with too much lipstick," she snorts.

You can always count on women for comments like that.

"I don't," I say almost automatically. It's true, anyway. Usually. Doyle's girlfriend with low-cut blouses and a penchant for sex excluded, perhaps. I make a silent vow to stick to nice, demure, unattached females for the rest of my life. Soon, anyway.

"Could be Doyle's type though," she muses absently. "Remember that Holly woman? She was rather generous with the heavy-duty foundation and mascara as well."

"Didn't know you met her," I say, amused that she's come to the same conclusion as I have about the make-up.

"Briefly. Doyle brought her to the pub once. Now, speaking of cows with small Cs, she was one all right. Looked down her nose at Anson, spoke to Jax like he was just out of the jungle…"

"Ouch," I agree. "Only saw her in passing myself but I know Bodie wasn't over-impressed. He got a bit cut up over it though – Doyle did – from what I gather."

"So I heard. But he's got a new girlfriend now, right?"

"Grapevine's working then," I chuckle.

"Of course it is. You met her?"

Damn.

"Briefly, yes."

And fucked her three times in one night. But you don't need to know that, Ruthie.

"And?"

"And what?"

"What's she like?"

"Oh… ordinary," I lie. "Pleasant enough."

"Ah," she says, realising I'm not going to expand on the subject as I'm pretending my steak is demanding all my attention. "Wonder how long this one'll last? Or if she'll wait for him if this job drags on a bit?"

Women are infuriating. I don't comment on that and stab viciously at a leaf of salad.

"It's not easy, is it," Ruth continues, sipping at the wine. "Finding somebody who understands about the sort of life we lead. It drives me nuts."

"You too?" I say, surprised. Funny, I'd never really thought about the women in the squad having the same sort of problems as we do on that score.

"Machos one and all, you are," she shakes her head, doing that irritating mind-reading thing. "And yes, me too. And Susan. Even Betty. You mean it never occurred to you that we also like the idea of a social life? And much as society might have progressed, it's still not that easy for a woman to pick up a guy. Although I heard Doyle's new one did precisely that."

"She did? Blimey."

"Apparently." Ruth giggles, and drinks again. I think her tongue's getting a little loosened with all this. "Maybe I should try it myself sometime. Picking a bloke up."

"Maybe," I agree, picking up the bottle. "More?"

"No, really. We are supposed to be working."

"Can't hurt," I encourage her, anxious to know more about Cindy's tactics with Doyle. She's not playing though, and in any case Doyle in person comes over to take our plates.

"Dessert?" Doyle asks.

Personally, I'd be glad to get out of here but Ruth takes the menu. Doyle's saying something about tirami su or panna cotta, or maybe the zuppa inglese. Ruth opts for that and I point at something at random. The vampire woman's at the next table and studying Doyle carefully, which is worrying me a little.

"Zabaglione, " Doyle says politely. "That will take a little while, sir."

"No problem," Ruth says smoothly. "We're not in a hurry, and we're enjoying ourselves."

If this is enjoyment, the next time we do a muddy obstacle course it'll be bliss in comparison. What if Doyle's cover's broken? What if Doyle manages to ask me how I'm doing with Cindy?

Dammit, the widow-woman's coming over here now, smiling sweetly. Are we happy?

"Ecstatic", Ruth says with feeling. "And such wonderful service."

Doyle grins at this. Don't overdo it, kids, I feel like saying.

"Good," the woman nods. "We hope you'll come again then. Your first time here?"

"Yes," Ruth says. "But not the last."

This is useful, really, as we most certainly will be back if the case takes long enough.

"Young lovers," she purrs. "You are always welcome. Marco… bring them a sambuca on the house."

Doyle rushes off, the vampire sails off too, and I roll my eyes slightly. Like the good little agent I am, however, I manage to get things back on course a bit by turning the conversation to food and wine, both of which apparently Ruth appreciates greatly. Like I said, she's a nice girl. Light years away from Cindy, and probably from Miss Vampire too.

"Oh this was fun," Ruth says, as she polishes off the dessert and looks up at me with a cheeky smile and a very strange expression in her eyes. "And on expenses as well. I just hope I was reasonable company at least?"

Oh hell. If I wasn't mistaken she's not only slightly tipsy but…

No, not Ruthie. She can't be coming on to me, can she? I mean I might have scored with Cindy and had my ego (and a lot else) well and truly stroked, but Ruth?

"Well… of course…" My stuttering isn't very convincing.

She grimaces slightly, and then amazes me by taking one of my hands and leaning over.

"Oh, don't worry, this is all for show," she says, her mouth inches from mine. "But look over there. To my right, over by the bar. Quick. "

As fast as I dare, half-expecting to see Doyle, cover well and truly shattered, being led off at gunpoint, I glance over and just catch a long, slim hand with bright red nail varnish straying over Doyle's bum as he leans over to pick up a bottle.

"Well, well," Ruth murmurs. "Looks like the lad's made quite an impression, wouldn't you say? And he's not exactly fighting her off."

Well yes, I agree. Typical bloody Doyle. Suddenly, I feel a bit better about the whole Cindy episode.

Doyle comes over with two tiny glasses, looking just slightly smug.

"There you go, young lovers."

Ruth manages to smile gracefully, and I realise we're still hand in hand.

"It's… we're…" I start.

"No worries," Doyle grins. "I'm a great believer in perks."

"So we saw," Ruth shoots back, which only gets us another self-satisfied smirk.

Doyle can be infuriating.

After that, though, Ruth removes her hand and is rather subdued as I drive her home.

"Sorry," she murmurs as she gets out of the car. "I'm not really a tart, you know. Blame the wine."

"It was fun," I assure her, dredging up my manners from somewhere. "Thanks, Ruthie."

"Next time," she says, back to her normal self, "you call me Ruthie, I'll kick your balls under the table."

---

---

Bodie can be the most irritating bastard in the world at times, and one of those times is now.

I know full well Cowley's trying to keep him busy with some sort of routine case, but I think he's wasting his battery because the idiot's constantly poking around everything to do with the Italian Job, as he cheerfully calls it. The old man's busy himself, which is keeping Bodie out of too much danger of being found out, and that isn't helping me either.

"Don't tell me you just happened to be driving past the buggy-boo," I say a little acidly. "And I'm not going to believe it if you tell me Captain Kirk's lent you the beaming-down equipment either. You're supposed to be in Somerset."

"Delegation, my lad," Bodie says airily. "Got the plods up there working on it. And speaking of plods…"

"Which we weren't," I retort. "But yes, one bug's in place and the others should be soon. Yes, Doyle was still alive and making cappuccino half an hour ago, and yes I have enough tape to cover every eventuality."

Bodie has the grace to look a little embarrassed. He's brought peace offerings, though, in the form of sausage rolls. Not complaining about that either, although the steak from last night could have staved off a famine.

"So how was last night?" Bodie enquires politely, around mouthfuls and as though he's reading my mind. "Good food?"

"No complaints," I nod. "And before you start on the company…"

"Oh yeah, Ruthie," Bodie grins. "Bless 'er."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just… nice girl. Not really my type, actually."

For some reason I feel I have to defend the poor woman.

"So what is your type, Bodie? Always thought it involved anything with boobs and under fifty."

"Roughly," Bodie agrees. "But I make exceptions now and then. Ruthie's… well… not my type."

"Turned you down, did she?" I tease, although I think I could be right.

Bodie doesn't answer this, mainly because he's heard Doyle's voice on the channel I'm switched to and he's listening intently.

"Test for number two, phone in office, if anybody's listening yet. About to go for number three under the desk."

Good lad, I think to myself and see Bodie grinning to himself as well.

It's amazing, really, with those two. When they're separated they're both on edge, and particularly Bodie. Never thought he'd have such a protective streak. When they're together, though, they spent half their time on arguing and one-upmanship and on pinching each other's girls…

No, we won't go there. I have the distinct feeling that although Bodie would quite happily pinch Cindy, he'd probably thump me if he knew what I'd been up to and if he thought Doyle really cared about her.

I catch the sound of a voice I think belongs to the vampire queen, which gives me an idea.

"Tell you what," I say casually. "There is somebody your type at the restaurant. Trouble is, she fancies Doyle."

"Yeah?" Bodie's interest is aroused and he tears himself away. "Some people have no taste. You met this Cindy of his yet?"

"Grapevine's working then," I say, remembering Ruth knowing about her from the gossip as well. "And yes. Briefly. Doyle asked me to do the honours as you were supposed to be in cider-country."

"Bullshit," Bodie says with a grin. "He just knows she wouldn't be able to resist me."

"And she would me?" I snap. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate."

"Nah. You're just too honest and upstanding and…"

"Boring?"

"Did I say boring?" Bodie picks up another sausage roll. "Besides, I think Ruth rather likes you. Apparently she was quite excited about last night. You didn't…?"

"Didn't what? Dammit, Bodie, we were working."

"At the restaurant, maybe. I'm talking about afterwards. What you need is to seize opportunities."

"With somebody who isn't your type, which is as good as saying she's repulsive?"

Bodie shakes his head sorrowfully but a snatch of conversation from the newly placed bug saves him from trying to wriggle out of that one.

It's Doyle all right, with the vamp whose name appears to be Giuditta. Doyle sort of groans it out, which makes Bodie frown at first, then he starts rolling his eyes.

I can hardly believe my ears. Did she just ask him to…

Blimey. Shades of Cindy all over again. Anybody'd think they'd been comparing notes.

This is… rather embarrassing in a way. Unless you're into the voyeur stuff.

"Now there's a tape we could blackmail 'im with for years to come," Bodie says thoughtfully as both of them start getting more vocal. I watch the tape go round and round and can't help thinking of Cindy.

"We could… probably wipe that one," I suggest. "It's not exactly evidence, now is it?"

"Depends on what you mean by evidence," Bodie murmurs against a background of Giuditta obviously getting what she was after. "You do know he'd do the same if it was me in there and him in here?"

"I can believe it, but you're not," I inform him, reaching for the tape. "And once again, it's work. He can't exactly refuse her if he's going to get well in with them…"

Doyle roars at this point, and is told he's an amazing lover followed by a few bits of Italian and some clothes-adjusting-type sounds.

"Suppose so," Bodie says mildly. "Not that I'm jealous or anything."

"Much."

"I don't need to be jealous, my dear boy. Not when I have half of London panting for me."

"And modest with it," I add, rewinding the tape and pressing 'delete'.

"Now you –" Bodie jabs at me with the last sausage roll, "you're not a bit jealous at hearing that and at playing Mr. Integrity with 'is bird so she'll wait for 'im?"

"This might surprise you, Bodie," I say, irritated. "But I do have a sex life, thanks."

"So you and Ruthie…" Bodie's eyes gleam.

"I took Ruthie home like the perfect gentleman. But you don't have a monopoly on the irresistible stakes, much as this might surprise you. This was somebody else."

"Well, well," Bodie winks at me. "When do I get an introduction?"

"Not any time soon," I say airily, wishing I hadn't brought this up just to prove a point.

"She good?"

"Nosey. But yes, as a matter of fact she is."

"Got a friend, 'as she?"

"You that desperate?" I snort. "I thought you had 'em lined up. And no, Bodie, I'm not going to play that sort of game. I'll let you and Doyle play pinching each other's birds…"

Hypocrisy is now my middle name.

"Fair enough," Bodie says easily, and switches the microphone to the other channel. "Did Doyle seem all right last night?"

Phew. Thank God he's gone back to protective mode.

"Yep. Looked like he'd spent half his life as a waiter."

"He's good undercover," Bodie says with a touch of pride. "But I hope we soon get all we need, wrap it up, get back to normal."

"Mmmm," I say absently. I'm not quite so sure I do, considering I have a date with Cindy tonight.

"Right," Bodie sighs, licking greasy fingers. "I'll go and see what the Somerset plods are up to. You'll let me know if anything interesting happens?"

I nod without thinking, and only realise it's got nothing to do with him, this case, I mean, when he's set off at a speed that isn't really designed for a small side road.

I settle back into the seat and allow myself a small grin all the same, though. Considering the way those two behave, they're both only getting what they deserve: Bodie's being deprived of a chance to blackmail Doyle with the tape and of fooling around with his partner's girlfriend on the one hand, and Doyle deserves all he gets for turning that bug on so damned early. Anybody'd think he'd done it on purpose… and much as I defended him he wasn't exactly sacrificing himself too much by the sound of it.

Yes, I think I'm doing Doyle a favour, really, because even if he does care for Cindy, she's basically a tart. In fact I hope to do her several favours before Doyle hangs up his pinny because I rather like the idea of Murphy the Sex God, admired by both Cindy and Ruthie – who isn't half as uninteresting as Bodie makes her out to be.

I'm almost sorry I didn't play the game with her a bit more last night now, particularly if she did turn Bodie down. One-upmanship is a very fine thing.

---

---

"Of course I've been damn well listening," I tell Bodie. "So have the others. There's been virtually nothing going on in Domenico's office, which is first priority. The telephone on the counter hasn't given us much except people who make reservations, and before you start…"

"They're making a list at HQ in case they're interesting," Bodie says miserably and proving he's got his ear very much to the ground. "But you've not heard Doyle. You sure he's still in there?"

"We assume so. It could be that he simply doesn't usually take reservations or answer the phone. Not in his job description."

"Very funny," Bodie snaps. "But at first…"

"At first we heard him shagging. Then we heard him get into a bit of trouble with Domenico but he rode that out pretty well."

"And rode something else afterwards," Bodie sighs with a tiny grin. I might have known he'd have homed in on that transcript – the one where Doyle's new admirer stepped in neatly and saved him from blowing his cover. Or at least blowing it where the Italians are concerned – I'm pretty sure that typing that up, and all it clearly indicated, raised a few female eyebrows.

"Yeah," I chuckle.

"Still wish we knew if he was actually in there."

"Bodie," I explain patiently. "You know as well as I do that we can't post people at both the main entrance and the staff entrance. They'd notice, or at least if they're worth their salt in the criminal world. I'll be going in there as soon as they're open, and I'll report back. Right?"

"Right," Bodie mutters, absently twiddling with the channel switch. "And you're sure they didn't mention…"

"Bodie…"

"Sorry." Bodie's apology is both unexpected and sincere. "I just…"

"Worry about the daft sod," I agree, softening a bit.

"That, yeah. And can't understand why he hasn't just walked out of there. We've got what we wanted."

"Maybe he thinks there's something else? Maybe he's waiting for me to confirm that Cowley's happy?"

And, I add to myself, once he knows that Cowley is happy and has said he can abandon his new career, he'll be rushing back to Cindy. Even tonight, if he downs tools and walks straight out of there for good. Somehow I can't see Doyle's devotion to duty stretching to him waiting on people any longer than he has to. Well, unless he decides to have one last fling with his new ladyfriend. Speaking of which…

"The others don't like Giuditta much," I tell Bodie. "That much we did pick up from some of the chatter near the counter. Think that gave the translators quite a blast. Some of the kitchen staff have quite a… picturesque way of describing her. "La putana" seems to be the favourite – even my Italian stretches that far."

It's funny, really, I think to myself. Doyle having a fling with one lady who's a little free with her favours and me doing the same.

"How's Cindy?"

Ah, now that's interesting. Bodie connecting putana with Cindy. Or worrying, if he's tumbled me…

But no, I decide. He's just thinking about Doyle and women and being jealous. Apparently the bit of Somerset he's been stuck in wasn't exactly populated with buxom young wenches, as he's complained several times about that.

"She's fine," I say, as casually as I can manage but still needing reassurance. "Had a quick drink with her the night before last, like I already told you. What made you think of her? She's not exactly the same type as the Italian woman, surely, just because she asked him out. Don't tell me you missed that little detail from the grapevine?"

Bodie shrugs, admitting nothing.

"So she's…?"

"Fine," I repeat, not prepared to give any more details or rise to the bait, much to Bodie's frustration.

'Fine', she certainly was: my bedsprings can probably attest to that. And my settee.

"Typical," Bodie says. "Doing the honest, upstanding stuff again. I was just wondering when I'd get to meet her. Doyle seems to think she's pretty hot."

Hot, definitely. I try not to think about just how hot.

"Knowing Doyle, not any time soon," I tell him. "Unless he's decided to keep the Italian bird, that is, although she's likely to end up behind bars, that one."

"Don't go for 'is cast-offs," Bodie says wickedly. "No challenge there. You thinking of offering her a shoulder to weep on if and when he does ditch her?"

I can't see Cindy weeping, somehow. In fact to be perfectly frank with myself, she's way too much of a handful, and I can't see me staying around for long after Doyle's back on the scene anyway, whatever he decides to do. Although another couple of nights would be… fun.

We both turn our attention to the loudspeaker again, but it's just a few words of Italian. Ah yes, stronzo. It seems to be one of the guys' favourite expressions, rather primly translated by our linguists as 'idiot' but according to Jax, who speaks a bit of the lingo, it's a little stronger than that.

"Dammit," Bodie grumbles. "We really should have had a bug closer to the kitchen."

"What, in case Doyle had his evil way with his new conquest among the vegetables?"

Bodie just sighs and jumps as somebody taps on the van door. It's just Khan, one of the squad coming to take over, and Bodie glowers at him when he dares ask why he's here.

"Social call," Bodie says neutrally, although I don't know who he's kidding.

"Still boring as ever in there?" the young Pakistani asks, tactfully not questioning Bodie's presence although he must be aware of the standing joke about Bodie and Doyle being joined at the hip.

"Yup," I say. "But you're about to get lucky."

"Lucky?"

"I'm going in when they open to get pizza. For those officially on duty," I add. "As in you and me, Khan."

"He eats pizza?" Bodie eyes the newcomer with dangerously narrowed eyes.

"Certainly do, mate. Or would you prefer me to be bringing my own chapatis?"

Nice one, Khan. I'm used to Bodie and his rather peculiar attitude to any of our 'coloured cousins', but it looks like this lad can handle himself.

Fortunately for us all, Bodie doesn't pursue that line and just does the 'poor suffering me' thing. Khan squeezes himself into the remaining jump seat, unruffled.

"They've finished going through this morning's tapes," he informs us. "The Italian bits we couldn't figure out ourselves, anyway. Mostly odd bits from the kitchen staff – stuff you hear when people are going in and out."

"Such as?" Bodie interrupts. "Anything about Doyle?"

"Nah, mostly the old woman yelling at the others - she sounds like quite a tyrant. She did mention Marco once, but we didn't hear the rest."

"So he's still there?" Bodie asks.

"I said," Khan says patiently, "she said something about Marco, which we presume was Doyle, but that was all. The other bits we had weren't clear. I do love it when the Italians start on "piano piano" though. The mamma's obviously got a soft spot for somebody at least as that came up a couple of times."

"Piano means?" Bodie asked. "Quietly, right? As in music?"

"Think the translators put 'take it easy'. And never knew you had a knack for languages, Bodie. Want a few basics of Hindi while I eat my pizza? If you're staying, that is?"

Bodie doesn't come up with a snappy reply to that on, which surprises me a bit, and I wonder what he's thinking. Sometimes it's almost as though he's got a sixth sense when Doyle's in trouble, but I can't think the odd 'piano' is enough to draw any major conclusions.

The time crawls, though. We all seem to have little to say. Bodie's obviously on edge, so I'm starting to be tempted, if Doyle's not going to leave there and then, to give Cindy a call rather than hanging around here any longer than necessary. I could take her a pizza round and make a grande finale of our short-lived adventure, couldn't I?

Now and then we flick channels, but Domenico's office is still quiet. The bug on the counter reveals little more than Giuditta, the putana in person, taking reservations. She's charming with some and condescending with others, saying that the restaurant is very busy and they are very fortunate to find room.

Khan chuckles and says he'll have to tell his uncle, who runs a curry house, to try that approach sometimes. Bodie makes some sort of half-hearted comment about Indian restaurants needing to pay clients to go in, but once again Khan doesn't rise to the bait.

"They'll be open now," Bodie says eventually, and I glance at my watch. It's about thirty seconds after six. I know better than to make him wait any longer and climb out of the van.

"Back in a bit," I say. "Any preferences? For the pizza?"

Khan says no anchovies, and I start to go and then catch Bodie's expression again. He looks as miserable as sin, and I'm the world's biggest softie.

"Bodie?" I ask. "You?"

This gets me a faint grin.

"The works, Murph. And ta. Oh, and I'll pay. Even for 'is." He jerks a thumb at Khan.

He really is worried, then.

---

Giuditta eyes me up and down as I go in, obviously deciding whether or not I'm worthy of appreciation.

"Saw you did pizzas to take out when I was here the other night with my girlfriend," I say politely.

She studies me a bit more, and nods superciliously. Ah yes, the bistecca, she says graciously.

Charming. Well, I suppose if doctors can refer to 'the broken leg' instead of the patient's name it's logical enough for clients to be identified by what they eat.

She hands me a menu, again displaying blood red nails a bit like Cindy's and snaps her fingers. One of the waiters comes over, fills a glass with something and pushes it over to me disinterestedly.

"For while you wait," he says.

I'm not complaining. It means I can take my time to study the menu and look around for Doyle, who isn't in evidence although two other pinafore-clad waiters – those I'd seen the other night – finish off preparing the tables for the evening's diners.

"You new?" I say conversationally.

"Usually in the kitchen," the guy says.

"Really? Difficult to get waiters, is it?"

Careful. Mustn't overdo it by sounding too nosy.

"Nah. Not here. This is good restaurant."

"Oh definitely," I agree enthusiastically, studying the various types of pizza diligently. By the looks of it, he's replacing Doyle, but why? And is Doyle replacing him?

"I mean," I add, hoping that he's simply swapped and Doyle's slaving over a hot stove because they've discovered he can cook spaghetti, "It's a good idea to rotate staff, of course. If that's the idea."

"Rotate?" the Italian frowns, probably wondering if I'm thinking of making him stand there and spin round and round or something.

"Yeah, as in do different things. Sometimes cooking, sometimes the bar, waiting tables…" I decide to help out. "Worked in a restaurant myself when I was younger."

Nice, Murphy. Not that I ever have, but if I can be a car salesman I can be an ex-maître d'hotel if I feel like it. Will he bite?

"Right," he says, not very helpfully.

"So you prefer being in the kitchen or here?" I prompt, afraid I'm going to get a look that says 'order the bloody pizza and leave me alone'.

"Kitchen," he says eventually, warming to his subject a little. "I know what I'm doing in there."

"Oh dear… and the guy who's in the kitchen in your place doesn't?"

"Slow," I'm told with a sigh, and my glass is refilled. "Very slow, not good. No talent. Too busy with the ladies, too."

Ah, now that does sound like Doyle, and we're getting quite chummy here. I just hope we're not going to get too technical about the chef-type stuff, as I don't know my flambé from my brûlée if I'm honest.

"Not a problem for the food, though", my new-found friend adds. "He's just doing vegetables. Can't even chop a zucchino properly, if you ask me. He's not Italian."

Of course, I feel like saying. I mean only Italians can chop zucchini. It also strikes me that being sent to the kitchen is probably his penance for that little scene in Domenico's office.

I'm relieved, I admit, and order four pizzas in the hope that Doyle will be too busy making minestrone to abandon ship right now and I can go and get busy with a lady (although I'm not certain Cindy qualifies for that description) myself. Serves him right.

My new friend disappears with the order, and I sit back where I can see the kitchen doors. As they swing open, I catch a glance of a curly head and grin to myself. So far, so good. Still need to see him, though.

Being brilliant, I have an idea, and call after the waiter who pauses at the entrance to the kitchen.

"Sorry, forgot to say no anchovies on the quattro stagioni. And where are the toilets?"

The other side of the restaurant, by the big flower display, I'm told, and bingo: Doyle's head nods slightly. Good lad.

I take myself off there, and sure enough the door opens only a couple of minutes later.

The sight of him's a shock, and he's limping. From being pretty glad I've got one over him I'm concerned – he looks like shit. Pinching his bird's one thing, but Doyle's still a mate and he's obviously hurting.

"What the…"

"Daren't be long," he says. "But listen…"

"No, you listen. You can get out of here. Right now would seem like a good idea, in fact. What the hell happened?"

"Ran into a fist or three after the little episode in Domenico's office. But that's just it: I found some stuff in there that we need to follow up. Photographs – child porn. Didn't know they were into that but it looks like they are. So I'm staying for a bit."

"Ray…" I study his face, and the bruises on it, and definitely don't like what I see. "Drop it – we'll get it out of them when we move in. We'll have it all set up for when that special consignment comes in, thanks to the film you took."

"But that's only in a couple of days, Murph. And from what I gather from gossip in the kitchen, Domenico's got some sort of meet with somebody for his 'other sideline' before that, so maybe I can find out more – that could be the child porn stuff. I'd like to see if we can get some of the others involved in that, in case what we get over the drugs stuff doesn't lead back to the bastards."

There's a glitter in Doyle's eyes that tells me he's off on one of his crusades.

"Ray… you're nuts. You sure?"

"Certain," he says. "Look, I've got a photo hidden up in my room. I'll go and get it and give it to you outside the staff entrance in – say – ten minutes. Only got it this morning, and it wasn't easy, believe me. Didn't have time to send it over yet. I'll nip out - say I need a breather. Maybe it'll be a start. And you need to get going or the owners of the fists might start wondering. I think Luigi – the guy standing in for me – is probably pissed off with me as well so watch it."

Suddenly, I'm not quite as fond of the rotating waiter as I was, but I do as I'm told. If Bodie ever gets his hands on any of this lot, I think, they won't be chopping any zucchini or pouring Valpolicella for a while.

---

---

"So explain. What d'you mean he's had a 'bit of trouble'," Bodie says, smelling a rat and not even grabbing for the pizza boxes. I made sure my first sentence was 'I've seen Doyle' to avoid him shaking the details out of me, but he looks like he's about to do so now I've given them the quick run-through.

"Like I said, Bodie, a bit of trouble. Black eye… apparently that's not ideal for the image of the place. So he's in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. Quite an art, apparently."

Bodie doesn't seem to give a flying fuck about the artistic side of preparing courgettes at first, but then seems to pull himself together, probably for young Khan's benefit.

"So he thinks they're into child pornography as well as all the rest, you said? And they're not onto him or anything?"

"Apparently not and it was just to warn him off the putana. So maybe you could make yourself useful, Bodie, and take the photograph in? Once you've had your pizza, of course."

I hand Doyle's precious piece of evidence over to Bodie, who shudders. Khan, mid-bite, puts his slice of pizza down abruptly, swearing softly.

"Nasty, that," Bodie agrees. "And apparently she's the daughter of somebody in the kitchen, so it's pretty clear there's a connection."

"Exactly what Doyle said, which is why he's staying around to see if this contact of Domenico's shows up."

"So he's all right?"

"He says he is," I tell Bodie honestly, like Doyle's made me swear to do but I'm not entirely easy with the whole thing.

"He'd say he was if he was at death's door," Bodie says, frowning. "Daft sod. Mind, Khan, it's better than being a wimp."

Khan cocks his head on one side, starts to say something and then thinks better of it. Sensible lad. I happen to know that 'wimp' isn't a good way to describe our Pakistani friend considering he's got a black belt in karaté and spent a few years with some sort of special intervention force. He's obviously figured out that Bodie's worried sick at well but is diplomatic enough not to mention it.

Bodie's so frustrated, though, that he's spoiling for a fight of some kind and starts glaring at me instead.

"Khan can take the photo. I'll stay here."

"No," Khan says evenly. "And if something happens in there and you decide to show your ugly mug and blow the lot? I mean at a pinch if there's a fight I can go in there and play the friendly neighbourhood do-gooder in search of a pizza and probably get Doyle out without busting the whole case open. That, Bodie, is one very good reason why you aren't part of the surveillance team, remember? Officially, at least."

There's a pause where I wonder if the buggy-boo's going to turn into a boxing ring but in the end Bodie concedes defeat and nods. I notch up another point in Bodie's favour: he's good at the job and knows Khan's right. Khan, I'm rapidly deciding, will go far. I just hope they don't come to blows at some point tonight if the Pakistani blows his cool or Bodie makes one racist joke too many.

"Murph…"

"Murph what?" I say, deciding I don't want to stay around much longer in case Bodie starts digging for details and I have to lie on Doyle's behalf any more than I already have. "I'm off. No doubt I'll see you in the morning. Both of you, probably."

Khan conceals a grin, but Bodie's finally reaching for his pizza, and then points at the other two as I pick them up.

"Said I'd pay for 'em, but didn't know you were intending on double rations?"

"I paid," I tell him calmly. "And no, I have no intention of eating both thanks. Name's not Bodie. You can go and get something from Khan's uncles' curry house tomorrow if you're still hanging around."

"Can't stand curry," Bodie mutters. "Worse than liver paste, curry."

"Double chapatis then," Khan says calmly. "Think of 'em as Indian sausage rolls without the sausage."

I leave while Bodie's thinking up a suitable retort for that one.

---

Cindy, it turns out, eats pizza with almost as much gusto as she puts into sex. In fact she grabs a slice even before she puts the rest into the oven to heat up a bit.

"I'm so glad you were free after all, Patrick," she purrs. "I just love impromptu stuff."

I've noticed, I tell her, deciding that she's done a pretty good job in the ten minutes between my phone call and arriving, as she's lit a couple of candles and is obviously fresh out of the shower. The loose robe's not concealing much either.

Blimey… as she slides plates out of the cupboard I also get a glimpse of what little is underneath it, and it looks very much like black… leather. Oh my.

Suddenly, I'm not that hungry any more – or for food, anyway. She realises where I'm looking, and gives me an extremely saucy grin.

"Wonderful pizza," she says, licking her lips. "Really good, these. Where'd you get them?"

"Oh, an Italian place," I say intelligently.

"Never. I thought they'd be from the China Diner," she grins, looking at the boxes. "Oh, Tosca. A ristorante, eh? Never heard of it. You eaten there?"

"Yeah," I say casually, then realise the last thing I want is her suggesting we go, or even dragging Doyle in there at some point in the future – if it hasn't been closed down because the owner's in the nick – because that would bring all sorts of problems.

"Good?"

"Terrible," I tell her. "Except for the pizzas, that is. Not somewhere to go for an evening out."

She shrugs her shoulders, which reveals a little more of what she's wearing. My groin does predictable things and I'm extremely glad I've skipped round the Tosca issue before my brain turns to mush.

"Have a bite," she says. "Of the pizza, that is… and then find the corkscrew, would you? It's over there somewhere. I'll go and get some wine."

I start looking but don't find it immediately. What I do find is her pinboard, which is several layers thick in Post-Its and other stuff, pinned rather precariously. So precariously, in fact, that as I start fishing around in a big jar full of spoons and spatulas, a few of them come off and I absently start shoving them back until an unmistakable logo catches my eye. The curly letters in a deep burgundy are all over the place: I've seen them on the napkins, the menus, over the door…. Tosca. This, I realise, is their takeaway menu, and it's fairly well thumbed at that.

Job-type instincts take over from more basic ones and I slide it back under the nearest, biggish sheet of paper on the board at the speed of light, and scrabble frantically for the corkscrew, which I finally identify. I barely take in the fact that it's in the form of women's legs with the screw part between them, I'm so stunned that she's lied to me. I mean… why?

She's forgotten the name, I persuade myself as she comes back into the kitchen. That must be it, right?

"So," she says as I attack the cork and fumble it a bit. "How about a little aperitif?"

The way she's looking at the tool in my hand and stroking my chest tells me she's not thinking only of the wine.

---

If the aperitif was good, involving me getting acquainted with the distinctly risqué underwear and satisfying her if not myself, the main course surprises me even more. Do I like a little fun, she asks? A little… naughty?

Before I've even answered, she slides open her bedside draw and points at it with a giggle. My mouth dries as I see the handcuffs and I think she feels me flinch slightly.

"Don't fancy it?" she says lightly. "I thought it was every man's dream, to chain a woman to her bed?"

"Well…"

"Don't worry," she says. "I'm not going to ask you to reciprocate if you don't want to. It just excites me. Go on…"

So help me, I do. And it sure as hell does excite her as well and I've no complaints at all in many ways although I'm not sure I get quite into it as much as she'd like: submissive women aren't really my cup of tea.

I undo the cuffs eventually, absolutely knackered, and slump down on the bed beside her deciding that she is most definitely too much for me to handle.

"Ray's not really into that," she pouts. "Shame, really."

I didn't want that piece of information, I feel like telling her. It's one thing pinching Doyle's bird, but I'm not really up for a blow-blow blow account of how they do it.

She's lying there fiddling with her toys, grinning faintly. I feel somewhat queasy for some reason. Suddenly, the massive bed and satin sheets seem tacky rather than sexy.

"Mind you," she adds, "I never give up hope. You sure you don't want to try it? Apparently it's incredibly arousing for a man as well. I keep telling Ray so but he won't do it either. I was really hoping you were more adventurous."

Did she, indeed.

"Dildos, now, they can be really…" she starts, and I can't stop myself frowning but cover that up by pretending I can smell burning.

It takes me a huge effort to eat some of the pizza, which she insists we take to bed. Even before she's brought it, though, I've decided that I'm not up for any more games, or in fact anything else at all. Doyle, I decide, is welcome to her although I'm almost sorry for him because I don't think the poor bastard's realised she's such a tramp. Can't exactly tell him so, can I? And neither can I decently escape before I've forced some of Tosca's best down me.

When Cindy gets up, licking her fingers and saying she's going to take a quick shower, I decide I'll get dressed and invent some sort of pretext for leaving rapidly. This isn't that easy unless I can think of some good reason, such as a potential buyer of a Rolls Royce needing a salesman at ten o'clock at night.

I start reaching for my clothes as I think, grabbing my shirt from where she's dropped it and then find myself staring at the drawer she took the handcuffs from. She's got quite a little treasure trove in there, in fact. Nipple clamps… ugh. And some sort of studded collar. A couple of dildos, a tube of K-Y jelly… and something else. I poke around a bit and pull out a tiny whip, almost…

… child size.

No, that's because of the photo I saw before. It's just small and I'm jumping to conclusions because I'm thinking about Doyle. I can't resist picking it up though, in a kind of revolted fascination.

There's a sort of tiny cat embossed on the handle, I notice but then decide it's time to push the stuff back in the drawer. As I sit up, shit in hand, I realise Cindy's standing there staring at me. Shit.

I mumble apologies, but she's laughing. Tells me she knew I'd be interested after all.

Desperation, however, kicks my brain into gear and I manage a theatrical sigh.

"Have to save that for another time, love. Got some sort of weird client from Saudi in tomorrow really early, and I want to make some extra commission from him. Then maybe we can go and celebrate somewhere really nice – better than any Italian place. And then play with some of your toys afterwards."

She looks a bit disappointed, but doesn't argue too much. I manage to kiss her goodbye but getting out of her flat and into my car, I breathe a huge, heartfelt sigh of relief. I haven't the slightest intention of seeing her again, let alone play with her toys. Kinky's one thing, but not when you're just a substitute for some poor bugger who's been beaten up and has no idea what she's really like.

I'm almost tempted to poke around a little, see exactly what this job of hers is just for the hell of it and if we've got anything on her, as well. She says she works at some sort of trading company, which 'isn't really interesting', but I'd be interested to see what she trades in. Whips and handcuffs, maybe?

Right, I decide as I head for home. I'll get Ruthie onto that. She's discreet enough not to give the game away with Doyle, or at least I hope so. I'll say it's because I've heard a couple of rumours about her being married or something and don't want to see Doyle hurt – or rather any more hurt.

That thought cheers me up a bit at least as I get home. I even call the buggy-boo to find – as I expected – Bodie's still there and still getting up Khan's nose although they seem to have called some sort of truce, Khan assures me.

So everything will be fine.

---

---

Why, I ask myself as I toss and turn, didn't I ask Cindy where she worked? As in exactly where? I mean that smart camera of hers that was lying around could be just a hobby of hers, and she might be heavily into soft-focus sunsets rather than…

Oh, stop it. She might even be a company photographer. Do trading companies have those? To take photos of anything from sacks of coffee beans to… whatever they trade in.

Why, why, why?

Well, sunshine, because first you were too randy to care and then too shocked to think about it. Very professional, all that.

Maybe I'm just getting suspicious for nothing. My mind's just putting two and two together and making five.

Of course I am. She's just an over-sexed bimbo.

Or is she?

She lied about knowing Tosca, didn't she?

By the time my clock says quarter to six, I've had enough of all this, so I get up and drink too much coffee and then call Khan as I set off. Nothing's happening there, he says, and why am I awake as I'm only supposed to take over at seven?

"Couldn't sleep," I say wearily.

"Too much pizza?"

"Something like that. Bodie still there?"

"Nope. Finally kicked him out when the restaurant closed. Why?"

"Just wondered. Look, is there any chance of you staying there for a bit? There's a couple of things I need to look into at work. About the case. It's a bit early to clear it with Cowley, I know, but…"

"No worries, mate. Got a couple of hours' kip anyway. Thought you were in for an evening off, not chewing it over?"

"So did I," I say grimly. "Thanks, Khan. No doubt you'll have company before long anyway."

"Can't think who you mean," he chuckles. "Take your time. And if he gets in touch, tell him to bring breakfast."

"Will do."

Right. Now to see if Cowley still keeps strange hours.

He does. I take a deep breath, ask if he minds sending somebody else to look after the bugs and say I've got something I need to do – check out some details about child porn.

"Miss Pettifer is handling that," he says abruptly. "And what with Bodie trying to pull the wool over my eyes and Doyle refusing to return, I would rather like to think that a few people still realise who is in charge here."

Damn. Cowley in this sort of mood isn't easy, and I know better than to try and budge him, or at least much. Compromise time.

"I do, sir. I'll give Ruth what I know and see if she can follow it up, then. Is that all right?"

"Very well," Cowley says shortly, then sighs and looks up at me. "Very unpleasant business, Murphy, child pornography. It will, however, ultimately be handled by the vice squad. Miss Pettifer is just putting some of her former knowledge to work to see if we can make any more links between that and those involved the drug business."

"Exactly. I…"

"Fine, then see Miss Pettifer and don't waste too much time over it. Understood?"

You have to love George Cowley when he's in 'get on with it' mood. I do pick up one thing, though. Miss Pettifer must be another early riser. What's more, my luck's holding so far because Cowley doesn't bother asking exactly what I know. Not sure if Ruthie'll be quite as uncomplicated though.

"Patrick," she says as I find her in Archives, "you're early".

"So are you."

"Yeah, well… Cowley's waiting for results and as touchy as hell thanks to Bodie and Doyle cheerfully ignoring instructions as usual. So I thought I'd make a start. Gain a few Brownie points. What do you want, anyway? I presume you haven't come to declare undying love, and I thought you were due to relieve Khan?"

"I was, but he's also being selfless and staying on for a bit. I came to pick your brains, actually, to see if you remember anything about… shall we say kinky equipment suppliers from the old days."

She stares at me, but I've already come up with a good smokescreen. I didn't miss the touch of irony about 'undying love', though, but decide it's not a good idea to react to that.

"Just some information I remember from way back," I say airily. "But it would be helpful if you could check the photo Ray gave us to see if the – um – equipment comes from a particular manufacturer. See if there are any… distinguishing marks on it. Like… "

"Could do," she says. "So far I've been trying to see if the location or the child tells us anything. Comparing the studio it was taken in with other stuff I've coaxed out of everybody from my old section to Interpol. It's not exactly fun stuff, and there'll be a lot more coming during the day."

"I bet," I sympathise, but she's staring at me, frowning slightly.

"But even if we found out who supplied the collar that isn't going to help much. There's nothing illegal in that. And there are dozens if not hundreds of makers."

"I know," I admit. "It's just that I… well…"

"Well what? And what sort of information do you mean?"

I knew this was going to happen. I take a long, deep breath as she watches me expectantly.

"I know somebody who's… well… into that sort of thing a bit. It's a fairly thin link and she probably doesn't have anything to do with these photographs…"

"Just a minute, Patrick." Ruth has launched into highly professional mode here and my smokescreen is suddenly fading rapidly. "Who are we talking about? I'm not trying to pry into your personal… affairs, but…"

"I'm – look, Ruth, I'm not into that stuff. It's just not a good idea to – er – involve this… person. Believe me."

"Put it this way – if you give me a name I can try and make connections. Or at least something to go on."

"Does a sort of cat logo mean anything to you?"

"On what?"

"On… whips and things," I say miserably. The reproach in her eyes is evident, but she's obviously thinking hard.

"I'll look," she says curtly. "Although at some point I'll need to know who has the whips in question if it's not going to be just another wild goose chase."

She's right, and my idea of keeping this quiet just won't wash.

"Doyle's girlfriend," I say quietly. "I was at her place last night and… poked around a bit. She had some pretty weird stuff."

"Poked around," Ruth says coldly. "I see."

"It's not…"

"I don't care what it is or it isn't, or even what sort of 'poking' was involved, Patrick. I also accept that you're trying to protect yourself – even Doyle, I suppose, but why suddenly think she's connected to all this just because she has rather bizarre tastes?"

I tell her about the camera, about the lie about Tosca, and about the trading company, which gets me a brief nod. Then I give Ruth her full name and address, which she notes.

"Look…"

"It's all right. If I don't come up with anything I'm not exactly going to broadcast it from the rooftops that at least Doyle if not both of you have rather strange taste in ladyfriends. Maybe the vampire queen's pretty tame in comparison."

Her tone's pretty cutting, so there's not much point saying anything else.

"Thanks, Ruth."

"I'm not going to say you're welcome," she shoots back.

Cowley chooses this precise moment to appear, with a face like thunder. This is all I need – particularly if he's suddenly decided to ask me exactly what I'm playing at.

But no. Apparently the Minister's decided that CI5 can take up the pornography side of it all as well, which considering we're short-handed (as usual) does not please the Cow one little bit. McCabe has been dispatched to take over from Khan, he adds, and where's Bodie?

I hesitate a little, and Cowley grimaces.

"If he's where I think he is, tell him to get back here and get the bloody Somerset case wrapped up instead of trying to play truant any longer. There are limits to my patience."

Oh, I know that, I feel like saying. Instead, I ask why McCabe's been sent to the buggy-boo.

"Because you can assist Miss Pettifer until further notice, Murphy. I expect results, and fast."

With that, Cowley turns on his heel and slams out again.

"Right," Ruth says. "Better get down to business then, and believe me, you aren't going to enjoy it."

I believe her. A finger points to the table, piled up with files next to a microfilm reader. I sit down meekly, but first incur Bodie's wrath when I phone him just as he's about to head out. I just hope he doesn't defy Cowley once too often.

"First," Ruth commands, "you go through all those photographs and the films and see if you can find any with a similar setting or if the same child is in them. That would be of particular help because you can't prosecute the people behind this unless you can put a name to the kids, and in this case we have one."

"But that's…"

"Ridiculous, but that's the law. And, of course, it would tell us who's behind it if the photo of Mimi matches any we've got from known sources. The people at the restaurant might just be dealers, not the people who actually take the photos and films."

It sounds horrible. In fact it is horrible, I see as I open the first file.

Ruth and I both sit there and pore through the stuff, which makes my stomach churn to the point I get up, unable to take it any longer.

"You all right?" she says, speaking to me for the first time in hours.

"It's…"

"It's revolting. One reason why I left the vice squad. They're monsters, these people."

There's a tiny catch to her voice, and I'm tempted to squeeze her shoulder.

"I can understand Doyle wanting to nail them," I agree, shuddering at the photograph in front of me.

"So what's Doyle doing with a girlfriend into… that?"

"I don't know," I sigh. "I don't honestly think he knows just… how much she is into it. Although it's not quite the same as this."

"Not quite, but there are connections. People who like the kinky stuff aren't always paedophiles, but some are."

Jesus. This hardly bears thinking about. My eyes are tired – in fact after so little sleep I'm knackered, and I'm still torn between thinking the stuff with Cindy's a coincidence born of my over-fertile imagination or suspecting her of something revolting.

"She did approach Doyle," Ruth says, thoughtfully. "So…"

"She was… pretty… forthcoming with me as well," I admit on impulse. "And no, it's not an excuse, but let's say she's a little loose with her favours and not exactly shy about it."

"Ah," Ruth says neutrally. "Well, I suppose if you're offered something on a plate…"

That's one way of putting it, although I don't comment on that.

"Look," she says, sighing. "Let's go and get a sandwich. Then I'll start looking into manufacturers and so on afterwards. We're getting nowhere here and it could be worthwhile."

It's a small truce, but a welcome one.

Bodie's up in one of the offices, attacking a typewriter with very little enthusiasm.

"What, no friendly typists?" I ask him.

"No friendly anybody this morning," he says mournfully. "Why's McCabe at the buggy-boo?"

I explain, leaving out my own little investigation and thankfully Ruth doesn't mention it either.

"Ah," Bodie nods. "So where are you off to?"

"Sandwich. Want one?"

"Two," Bodie says. "No liver paste, though."

When we get back, I put the curried chicken specials on his desk and disappear back to Archives before he opens them.

---

When Bodie arrives downstairs a couple of hours later, looking almost as thunderous as Cowley did earlier, I get ready for the outburst but it's nothing to do with sandwiches.

Bodie's curt and to the point. Apparently Doyle's got a message through to Mac about the kid in the photograph, and it isn't good news either. Cowley's even pulled him off his report and told him to grab me and get over to Tower Hamlets, fast, and to look for building sites. They'll radio more details in to us as we drive once they've tried to find out just how many sites we might have to look at.

"Look for what?" I ask.

"Looks like they've got a dead kid somewhere – maybe the one in the photo," Bodie says.

I grab my jacket. Ruth's on the phone, as she has been on and off ever since lunch, and she's been getting more frustrated by the minute as apparently she's getting nowhere with the 'Cindy connection' and I think she'll soon abandon that avenue. The news makes her face cloud over, and she shakes her head slowly.

"Patrick…"

"News?"

"Don't know yet," she starts, "but…"

"Come on," Bodie interrupts, and Ruth says it can wait, whatever it is. At least she doesn't start by saying something like 'about Cindy and whips', bless her.

Bodie's positively champing at the bit. I'm familiar with him in this mode, so I get myself down to the garage in his wake at a fast trot – and know better than to even suggest driving.

Bodie says little at first, concentrating on not killing any innocent pedestrians and glaring at cars in front of him at traffic lights and who have the impudence to stop when they're red.

"He's stupid," he says fiercely. This would be Doyle, of course. I wait for him to elaborate, which he doesn't as he's too busy scattering a few more drivers who seem to think speed limits are there for a reason.

"Stupid?" I ask eventually.

"Too much of a risk, using the bugs. Should have waited until Mac or Khan went in."

"And what if he couldn't talk to Mac or Khan?"

"You know what your trouble is?" Bodie snaps. "You like playing by the book too much. And you don't have a partner."

That shuts me up. Partly, because he's right and partly because I'm pretty surprised he's let his feelings show that much.

A few miles further, Bodie heaves a huge sigh, and mutters an apology. I tell him I can see his point, and the silence becomes a little less hostile.

Central radios in to say there are two building sites at Tower Hamlets: one's fairly small but the other's a big renovation project on a community centre, and the builders are called Rezzonico, which is…

"An Italian name," Bodie says patiently. "And not that we're jumping to conclusions but these Eyeties do tend to give their custom to their mates. We'll start there."

We arrive, and get Khan on the R/T as we arrive: Cowley's dug him out of bed and sent him along to help. He'll be there in a minute.

"And there's another one with family all over the place," Bodie grumbles. "Which reminds me. Whose idea was the curry sandwich?"

"It was that or liver paste," I lie. "Besides, I thought you and Khan were working on a little entente?"

Bodie just grunts at that and brakes outside the gates to the site just a little more flamboyantly than is necessary.

"Suppose there could be worse than Khan," he says as the young Pakistani rolls up and parks without creating a second plume of dust. "Women field agents, for instance."

"Not that you're racist or sexist or anything," I say lightly as we get out and prepare to tackle the foreman.

"Me?" Bodie says. "Course I am. Don't like the look of this guy either. You can do your charming stuff."

I do my best, but think it's the CI5 ID that impresses the diminutive guy in the hard hat more than my charm or even my extra inches. What Bodie's taken umbrage about with him I don't know as he sounds more Cockney than Italian, but I know better than to comment.

What? A dead body? On his site? Impossible.

Well, I insist, we're going to check anyway. Could they please stop work and let us go ahead?

The foreman stands there looking confused more than anything else, then says he's going to phone his boss. Khan tells him politely that if he does, he'll shoot him. This makes Bodie chuckle appreciatively and I mentally chalk up another few Brownie points for the lad.

In fact, Khan takes him along to keep an eye on him while Bodie and I start at the opposite end of what looks like the foundations of a building.

"Cement shoes," Bodie says softly. "Bet that's what it is. We should have asked what they were cementing earlier."

"Could be too late if she's under some of this," I point out.

"Possible," Bodie admits. "Apparently Doyle didn't know when they dumped her."

We walk around, or rather climb around, checking out everything we can see from piles of rubbish to sacks of cement and stacks of breeze blocks or girders. Bodie curses and mutters about the dust, the dirt and the quality of workmanship, which leads me to ask him when he qualified as an architect. Fortunately, he just chuckles.

Then Khan yells us to come over and Bodie's face drops immediately, because there's something in his tone that tells us he's found what we're looking for.

The foreman's pretty occupied being sick, and Khan looks green himself. I fight to keep the emotions at bay as I reach one part of floor where the rough rubble was in the process of being gradually covered with a nice, thick layer of concrete… and see the tiny hand from under a tarpaulin. Khan's holding a shovel.

"I covered her up. Another hour," he says quietly, "and nobody'd ever have found her. Ever. Thought I saw something, and dug a bit...."

His voice is barely controlled and he turns away from the sight. To my amazement, it's Bodie who goes up to him and pats him on the shoulder, tells him he's done a good job. I get onto the radio, trying not to look at the child when Bodie lifts the rough fabric. Even he looks shaken.

"Jesus," he says quietly. "They could have left her clothes on, the bastards."

"When we get these people," Khan says quietly, "shooting's too good for them."

"Agreed," Bodie nods. "Although a couple of well-placed bullets would give me immense satisfaction, personally."

I get Cowley, whose temper hasn't improved one iota and who says that Bodie and Khan are to go and replace Mac, and I'm to inform Bodie that if he puts one foot inside the restaurant he's fired: he's there to hold the fort if Khan goes in, and under no circumstances must we create an uproar at the restaurant before the consignment comes in. As for me, I'm to go back to the archives once the police and forensics people arrive.

I pass on the information, and steer the foreman back to his portakabin, taking one last look at the tiny form under its filthy cover.

---

---

Back at the ranch, Ruth's emerged from the archives and into the conference room - mainly, she says, because at least she sees daylight up here and there are more telephone lines to play with as she's due to act as duty officer in Cowley's absence tonight as well. The old man's apparently about to take his bad temper off somewhere, probably to bicker with the Minister about our caseload (huge) and funding (less huge) over a wee dram or two. Could do with a dram myself, to be honest.

It's just after six, I notice as I glance up at the clock, and I can't see me getting out of here before tomorrow looking at the ominous amounts of documents laid out in neat piles. I've just battled my way through the rush hour, my mind full of that tarpaulin plus memories of Doyle's battered face and Bodie's tight control as he set off back to the buggy-boo. If he's stuck in traffic as well, God help the population.

She looks up at me as I walk in, grimacing.

"Heard the news about the child."

"Yeah," I sigh and sink down in front of yet another pile of photographs. "You got anywhere?"

"Not really, no. Waiting for the blow-ups of the photo Doyle brought in – we're so short-staffed there was nobody to do it earlier. The vice squad still owe me a few details about logos and stuff, but that wasn't exactly their first priority." She sounds as tired as I feel.

"Anything from Doyle?"

"Last time I heard from Khan it was all quiet on the Western front – he should be in the restaurant around now. Bodie got there quite a while back, while you were still at the building site." She shudders. "Bad, was it?"

"It was," I nod. "God, Ruth, how on earth did you sleep at night when you were working on this sort of stuff all the time?"

"Good question. Like I told you, it was one reason why I left. Blood and guts is one thing, but dead kids…"

"Is another," I say glumly.

"No point in brooding," she says crisply, "That isn't going to help, is it? There are two more piles of photos, and I've still not got any matches with that studio or the kid - Mimi, wasn't it?"

"Right. We should get more photos from the morgue," I tell her.

Then I take a deep breath and start looking at more photos, more kids. It's almost a relief when Cowley comes in and I can look away. I think I'd rather face Cowley's temper than much more of this.

"Bodie's taking the child's mother to a safe house," he says. "Doyle's sent her to the van and apparently he promised to follow."

"The mother's not involved?" I ask. Nothing could shock me any more today, I think, although if I know Bodie like I think I do, he's not going to be happy about that sort of errand if Doyle's due to re-emerge at any moment. Mind, it'll be a stay of execution for me when Bodie realises that Doyle's not exactly quite as unscathed as I gave him to understand.

"Apparently not", Cowley says thoughtfully. "However, the translation of what the bug picked up has just come through in final form, and it confirms our initial suspicions that the shipment will be in later tonight. I've cancelled my appointment with the Minister. More instructions shortly, although we shall be intercepting it shortly before midnight."

Ah. Well Doyle, my lad, might be better to get out of there then. I don't think he's in great shape to get mixed up in a shoot-up at this moment, not to mention he's not armed.

"Does Doyle know that?"

"Not that we'll be moving in – only that it was possible the shipment was for tonight. Khan will have told him, and had instructions to tell Doyle to leave immediately." Cowley says, as the phone rings again. Ruth picks it up and passes it over.

Cowley listens and his face tightens. He answers with a few terse syllables, says 'under no circumstances' and sighs heavily.

"Doyle," he says. "They've tumbled him in Domenico's office. What the hell was he doing taking risks like that?"

Shit. Oh, shit.

"What…?" Ruth starts.

Cowley shakes his head. "There was a fight. Khan says it sounded like Doyle was getting the rough end of it, but couldn't tell much."

"And he went in?"

"No. Although he was extremely anxious to do so. I'm sending one of the translators over to the van, see if anything's mentioned as well as somebody to keep an eye on the service entrance in case they move him, if it's not too late and they already have."

"Who's going to tell Bodie?" I ask.

"I am," Cowley says. "When I see fit to do so."

Ouch. I'm not sure which is worse, really: Bodie knowing now and going berserk – probably including a one-man assault on the restaurant – or finding out later and going berserk then, with anybody from myself, Khan, Cowley or the world in general on the receiving end.

Once Cowley's left, Ruth and I end up looking at each other.

"Now what?" I groan.

"God knows," she sighs. "I'll go and find some coffee. It's going to be a long night."

Two mugs of coffee later, my head feels as though it's bursting and I'm so on edge I jump as one of the secretaries comes through with an envelope and hands it to Ruth. She slides the photograph out - I can see what it is - and her eyebrows rise. Silently, she passes it across and I see that it's a close-up of the studded collar Mimi was wearing. The logo, although blurred, is clear enough to see. It's a cat.

Without speaking, Ruth picks up the phone and gets through to her vice squad mates. Yes, she says. She'll hold.

It takes her a while to find the person she wants, but she finally reaches him and asks again if they've got the stuff she wanted on logos. Cat logos in particular, she says. Oh, they also wonder who makes them? Well, well.

Ruth puts the phone down and cocks her head on one side.

"We won't be moving into the restaurant for hours yet, Patrick. How about paying your ladyfriend a call? Ask where she buys her toys?"

Oh hell. I probably look a bit taken aback, and I could swear she finds this faintly amusing.

"I'm not sure…"

"Suit yourself," she shrugs. "But if the guys behind this aren't linked to the Tosca people's other little sideline, any way of finding them would be useful. Even if the suppliers have nothing to do with them, they might just know where some of the studios are?"

She's right, annoying as this is. I hesitate all the same.

"Look, Patrick. If those bastards have got Doyle, any link to them is useful. She might at least put us on their track without her realising it."

I nod miserably and pick up the phone, half-hoping she's not in.

She is. All happy to hear from me and of course I can pop round for a quick drink, she says brightly, placing a slight emphasis on the 'drink' which makes it clear that's not what she thinks I'm going for at all.

Wrong, darling. I put the phone down carefully and head off. I'll get the information I need… somehow, and then it'll be the end of a beautiful affair, I reassure myself. Doyle - if he's still alive, poor bugger - is welcome to her.

---

The revealing negligee – she's done another fast change, I expect - looks tacky more than sexy this time. I do manage to give her a kiss though, and tell her I've had a really bad day.

Oh dear, haven't I sold any nice expensive cars, she asks, which a slight edge to her voice.

Right, might as well get this over with. I've been practising my whole approach all the way here. Quick kiss and cuddle, find an excuse to get my hands on the whip as though I'm interested, then a rapid change of heart. Nothing to it.

I let myself be coaxed into the bedroom after about two sips. So far, so good. I even manage what I fondly hope is a wolfish smile as I oh-so-casually slide open her bedside drawer and pick up the whip.

"Oh my," she simpers. "You will be gentle with me, won't you?"

The temptation to smack her pert little arse for real is almost overwhelming, but I grin back as she licks her lips.

"Nice little piece, this. Where'd you get it?"

"Oh, somewhere. Why?"

This isn't the way it's supposed to go, dammit, although to be honest I had realised it wouldn't be that easy.

"Just wondered. I – um – find them quite… stimulating. Get a bit embarrassed about it to be honest."

"Do you indeed," she says delightedly. "Tell you what, then… let's play a little game."

And that wasn't on the programme either. Considering I'm anything but aroused this isn't going to be easy either.

"Well, I –"

"Questions and answers," she giggles. "I answer yours when you've done something for me, and then I ask you something and you can demand a favour in return. How about that?"

Shit, shit, shit. The things I do.

"What do you want me to do?"

Well, maybe she'll want me to tie her to the bed and whip her, which is not without its attractions as I'm starting to like her less with every minute that passes.

She picks out the handcuffs, and kisses me again. I'm going to love this, she says. But I have to get my clothes off first. All of them, and lie on the bed.

Trying not to show my reluctance, I do. She stands over me, studying me with what looks like approval… or at least until she realises I'm not exactly all ready to perform.

"You're nervous," she purrs. "I find that so attractive. But don't worry, we'll soon get over that."

We will?

Jesus Christ, she's got a handcuff around my wrist and the bedpost. I protest, and try to sit up, but she chuckles delightedly and tells me, yet again, that I'm going to adore this. It's not exactly as though she's going to harm me, so why don't I lie back and enjoy it?

She uses another two pairs of cuffs on my ankles, which I find frankly terrifying. CI5 training doesn't exactly cover this sort of thing. Handcuffs, maybe, but to perform on demand?

I send urgent signals to the appropriate parts of my anatomy, which steadfastly refuse to play the game. The fact that she's twisting the whip round and round in her hands doesn't help.

"Very nice," she says casually. "Let's just get the other wrist attached… don't want you thrashing around, now do we? There we are."

I don't like this. Not at all. She strokes the whip down my chest, probably hoping for results, and then brings it down sharply on my belly. I yelp.

"You see, Patrick, you've been a very, very bad boy. Because you're getting all too curious."

"Well… I…"

"Much too curious," she says brightly. "But I suppose that goes with the job. Doyle's as well. Snooping around – thought this might happen even if I'd covered my links to Domenico rather well, actually."

Jesus Christ. My eyes widen.

"Oh yes," she continues. "I mean picking Ray up in the first place was because Beppo's a friend of mine – he wanted them busted on the drugs business but preferably not on the other stuff – he's got some sort of Italian-type score to settle with Domenico. But I broke all links with my client who sold the stuff to him anyway. Can't be too sure, can I?"

I'm shivering slightly. Can't help it. Cindy's quite enjoying her little story now.

"Anyway, I stopped taking photographs for that one and found myself some other takers, with a little help from Beppo who's been very successful on that score back in Italy. As for Ray, we knew he worked with the CI5 guy that Beppo knew, so I figured that if anybody got suspicious of me or my business he'd start poking his copper's nose into my affairs – so at least I'd have advance warning if I had him where I could keep an eye on him. That way I could have done a runner in good time, although it didn't suit me quite yet."

"Look," I stutter. "Whatever you're into, this is nothing to do with me…"

She carries on, ignoring that with sheer contempt.

"I must say it was terribly irritating when he had to go away and you turned up – wondered if you'd be just some poor sucker he'd lined up to babysit or you worked with him. You soon gave yourself away a bit, though - mixing up the used car salesmen line with somebody dealing in brand-new Rollers. Then there was your ID card I saw in your wallet when you were asleep. You never woke up, fortunately."

I didn't. Of course I bloody well didn't thanks to the athletics we'd just indulged in.

"You can't do a runner anyway," I say with as much conviction as I can muster, which is not an easy thing to do in my current position.

"Don't bother to play games with me, sweetheart." She licks her lips, still fingering the leather whip. "I can and I will. I've been a busy girl, setting it all up between keeping you happy."

"You still won't get away with it," I say, which is a terrible cliché but considering the situation I can't come out with anything snappier. "Our lot know where I am."

"Such bravado," she smirks. "And I doubt you've been spreading the word that you've been shagging Doyle's girlfriend while he's away even among your CI5 mates. Besides, I'll be out of here by tonight. Change my name. Get out of the country for a while as well once I'd had a bit of fun with you. Must say I half-thought it would be Ray who ended up in your place if anyone did, though."

Cindy pokes the whip at me again, this time where it hurts even more. She laughs, then goes over to the window and waves.

The handcuffs don't budge an inch, although I can't resist trying. God almighty, who's she got out there? Whoever it is will most probably be here to kill me, quite obviously. What choice do they have?

"Who's this? Another client?" I ask, my voice not quite as level as I'd like it to be.

"You really think I'm going to humour you by answering that?" she says. "You're so naïve, Patrick. You and Ray both."

"Naïve? Hardly. I've got backup outside." It sounds pathetic even to my ears.

"Very funny," she says. "And no you haven't – I made sure of that. You came alone – more proof that you didn't want anyone else to know about your little games." She goes to the door and opens it, not even pausing to put any clothes on. A tall guy comes in and gives her a kiss before grinning over in my direction.

"This your real boyfriend?" I say spitefully. She nods, pouring them both a drink.

"He likes the kinky stuff, does he? Knows about all your little preferences? About Beppo? Suppose he's another one you like to fuck."

Getting them angry probably isn't such a great idea, but I can't help myself.

"Oh absolutely. Roger knows all about me, including about Beppo and the fact that he doesn't actually like women, only kids. And he also knows just how much I get turned on by certain things. Go ahead, Roger. You first."

Jesus. I've had it now and I'm more terrified than I've ever been in my life. Roger's standing over me, and instead of using the tiny whip, as I expected, he went to the wardrobe first and came out with one that's far, far bigger and has wicked, metal-tipped leather strands.

I close my eyes as he raises it and can't help crying out as it hits me. Cindy laughs.

"That was just a taste though, Patrick. Now you get to beg us not to do it again and Roger to fuck me instead."

Roger obediently unzips his fly. My chest and belly are on fire in a dozen places.

I won't do it. Won't play their sick games. Whether they decide to fuck or not, they're hardly going to undo me and send me home, are they?

After another two lashes, this time from Cindy, I'm not sure. A couple of the metal tips have drawn blood, but every single one has left its mark - I can see that already. The pain's so intense I'm gasping, and each stroke is moving lower – the next one will probably be…

"Please…" It's my own voice I hear.

"Louder, Patrick. You can do better than that. Tell him what you want him to do."

I swallow, watch him take the whip again slowly and raise the revolting-looking thing. He's erect, wild-eyed, and halts to slide a hand rapidly between Cindy's legs before grinning at me.

"Go fuck yourself, you arsehole."

There – last stand. I'm quite proud of myself in a blurred sort of way, although it's bound to be short-lived. I tense…

… and the metal tips cut into my chest again and there's a bang and God it hurts and his aim's a bit off and I really think I'm going to…

I really don't want to open my eyes again. Cindy's talking to me. She can go to hell.

No, it's not Cindy. It's…

Oh God, it's Ruth. I bite back something halfway between a sob of pain and one of relief, and struggle to get my wits together. By this time, competent hands are already working on the cuffs around my wrists. Cindy and Roger are both there but not going anywhere fast as they're also sporting handcuffs and firmly attached to the towel rail in the bathroom next door. Roger's bleeding from his right arm. The whip arm, I realise.

She tells me she's going to call an ambulance for me, but I find myself shaking my head and refusing. My voice is not exactly its old self, but she hesitates at least. She does help me sit upright, which makes me yelp and look a little less heroic.

"How did you…?"

"The Vice Squad finally came up with the goods. They suspected her of being involved in a whole lot of things, but couldn't prove it. In fact to all accounts Cindy here is rather a nasty piece of work and so are her mates. So rather than expecting she'd give you the name of the suppliers in all innocence, I got a bit worried she might tumble you if you asked too many questions. I - felt a bit bad about insisting you went over here once I realised she was definitely not just a tart."

By this time Ruth's freed my legs and I swivel around slightly. I hurt like hell and this isn't an easy manoeuvre, but I'm also highly aware that I'm stark naked.

"Glad you did," I say as nonchalantly as I can muster, reaching for my underpants. "And she knew who Ray was – and me – right from the start."

Ruth's eyebrows shoot up and she glares at Cindy when I add that she's been the one doing the photography of the kids – in fact I half think she's going to hit her judging by by the look of disgust and anger on her face.

"So who's your client, Cindy?" I snap. "The one who supplies Domenico?"

She just looks at me with contempt and stays silent. I grit my teeth and try to get the rest of my clothes on, which isn't a particularly pleasant task as my whole body feels like it's been steamrollered, or more accurately… well… whipped.

"She's not very conversational," Ruth says casually. "Can you take my gun for a minute, Patrick?"

I stare at her and take it, and watch in amazement as she picks up the whip.

"Right," she says. "I'll start with you, darling – or would you prefer it was your boyfriend?"

"You wouldn't," Cindy says although the fear in her voice tells me she rather thinks Ruth would. She's not the only one either.

Ruth looks from one to the other, and smiles over her shoulder at me.

"Tell you what, Patrick. You choose."

"Her," I say firmly. "Apparently it turns her on to watch, and being turned on isn't exactly the effect I was aiming for."

"Fine," Ruth says cheerfully, and strides over there.

"Benfatto," Cindy says quickly. "Benfatto pays me and supplies my stuff to Domenico. Or he did. I've stopped working for him now… I told you…"

"More," Ruth encourages. "Tell me more about Benfatto. Where's his home? His studio?"

Cindy gives us the address of the studio. I probably look a bit puzzled, but Ruth informs me that they caught a snatch of conversation about a studio of some sort at the restaurant, and it was one theory about where Doyle might be.

She leaves off and calls Central to send somebody to pick up our two now highly subdued prisoners, gives them the address of the studio, and then continues to bring me up to speed as I fumble with buttons. McCabe has apparently sussed out as much of the restaurant as he can, including the kitchen through the window near the service entrance, and there's no sound from Domenico's office, so…

"Doyle's either dead in there or they got him out pretty fast," I say wearily. "Let's hope they did take him to this studio and not anywhere else."

"I hope so. I'm counting on the fact that they'll save him until they've got time to find another building site or something as they're all busy waiting for the consignment. And they obviously needed to get him out of the restaurant."

"Yeah," I sigh shakily as her R/T chirrups again and she answers with a few 'will dos'.

"Right," she says. "I'm off to join Bodie in a minute. I said you're up to finishing here. You up to it?"

"Course," I say. "You just be careful, OK?"

"I will. And here. I think you'll need this."

To my huge surprise, Ruth goes over to the bar and passes me a drink, frowning at me. The whisky goes down a treat, in fact. I even manage a half-hearted toast to Cindy and then remember my manners enough to thank Ruth again for her excellent timing.

"It could have been better. Christ, you gave me a scare," she adds quietly, so the others can't hear. "Mind, them jumping you and then using that thing can't have been fun for you either..."

She thinks they jumped me? Oh, that's a relief. That's a whole lot better than her knowing I more or less willingly let myself in for all this. I take another, large swig of the whisky and hear police sirens in the distance as Ruth rushes out.

Now all we have to do is get Doyle out in one piece and haul in Benfatto and his mates.

---

---

Khan's still eyeing me up and down. I try hard not to wince as I put the cup of thermos tea down, checking my watch for about the twentieth time. He's been sensible enough not to ask too many questions about my encounter with Cindy, although Ruth's apparently radioed to tell him I was staying to hand her and her perverted bastard of a friend over to the coppers while she joined Bodie.

Voicing my own thoughts earlier, Khan expressed the opinion that Bodie's mood when he found out that Doyle had been hurt and was prisoner must have been 'fairly spectacular', not to mention his reaction to finding out he'd got Ruth in tow. Poor Ruthie, I've thought on several occasions. And what it's going to be like for all of us if they find a body instead of his partner, maybe a little knocked around and furious, in that studio doesn't bear thinking about.

I try to get comfortable without showing that every movement that brings abused skin into contact with clothing hurts like hell, and find myself staring at two small white pills in Khan's palm.

"Can't hurt," he says casually. "Just painkillers. Ruth said you had a bit of a set-to in there."

Did she indeed.

"I'm fine," I say defiantly.

"Sure. That's why you're bleeding, right? I think we've got plasters and antiseptic in the first-aid kit as well."

No way. That would entail pulling my sweater up and revealing the telltale marks although knowing Khan he's probably realised what the specks of blood come from anyway. I just shake my head, pretending to listen intently to what we can hear from the restaurant – which isn't much. There's the usual bustle around the bar, a little shouting from the waiters but nothing very helpful. This, according to regular reports from our tame translator sitting in the passenger seat with headphones on, includes the Italian bits, which are, to quote him 'somewhat vulgar'.

God, I hate waiting. I swallow the pills with another mouthful of tea just to shut Khan up, and try not to fidget. Then the R/T crackles and we both snatch for it. Khan, who is nearer and faster, picks it up.

"Doyle," he tells me, putting me out of my misery. "They've got 'im. Right, 3.7, see you later then."

I let out a massive sigh of relief and grin as Khan passes the handset over and I get Bodie. "We'll be with you in a bit. But why the hell didn't you tell me he was already in bad shape when you saw him…"

"Bodie…"

"And what the fuck stopped anybody from telling me they'd got 'im…"

"Bodie…"

"And what for Christ's sake are you playing at? Ruth wasn't exactly forthcoming, but…"

I take a deep breath but suddenly it's Ruth on the other end.

"We're taking 4.5 in to be checked over. He's not in great shape but he'll probably be with us when we move in… and as for the details, we'll go into all that once we're all together."

I can hear Doyle on the other end, who's saying quite calmly that there's no 'probably' about it and then obviously grabs the handset.

"Murph? What the bloody hell is going on your end? Ruth says you were with Cindy…"

The pass-the-parcel continues as Khan removes the R/T from my hand and tells Doyle that I'm a bit worse for wear but OK, but we'd better not start on all that now as we'd be better advised to keep tuned to what's going on in the restaurant.

God bless Khan. Or rather whoever looks after Pakistanis on the religious stakes bless Khan, I think distractedly.

Peace descends on the buggy-boo once again, with the minor distraction of Mac letting us know that he's finished his pizza, it's all quiet in the restaurant, and he's now parked just up the road. Me, I'm all too aware that once the three musketeers roll up it's not going to be a picnic… and I'm not talking about the raid, either. As days of playing CI5's finest go, this is not one of my better ones.

---

Fortunately for me, the fun starts almost as soon as the van door opens to reveal Bodie with the two others in tow, nearly an hour later. I just have time to take in the fact that Doyle's pale but upright, Ruthie looks completely unruffled and Bodie has a face like thunder, when our translator raps on the glass partition and tells us that Benfatto's just called Domenico's office to say he's on his way.

This, I have to admit, is a gift from any god at all since it gives us far more time to get ready. Ruth nods to me, and as already discussed with Cowley we set off for the restaurant, ostensibly to order pizzas even though it's after closing time. I've closed my jacket over the telltale stains on my sweater, although I can see her eyes homing in on that little detail.

Doyle's supposed to be waiting outside with Mac while Bodie and Khan head for the service entrance. Something in his eyes tells me, though, that this arrangement might not altogether suit him.

We go through the doors and wander up to the counter, to be met by the vampire's extremely unwelcoming stare, just as Benfatto's car pulls up. No, no, she starts waving her hands. They're closed. No matter how wonderful and delicious their pizzas might be, we'll have to wait for another time.

Ruth pouts and starts pleading that she's starving, just finished a late shift, and then glances over her shoulder as Benfatto comes in with two heavies. Look, she says cheerfully, we're not the only ones hoping for such a gastronomic experience.

Benfatto tenses immediately to see unfamiliar faces there and glances back towards the door as if he's wondering whether to make a rapid exit, but then Domenico comes bustling through. He, too, doesn't look exactly delighted to see us, but Giuditta launches into some sort of rapid explanation, which at a guess would be about stupid clients.

Come on, I urge the team handling the kitchen staff silently. They should have got them at gunpoint by now, and used generous amounts of duct tape to make sure they don't issue any unwanted warnings.

Finally, blessedly (there's a lot of blessings going on here), Benfatto shrugs and heads for Domenico's office with the two others in his wake, one carrying a large holdall.

"Excuse me," Ruth says politely, and they glance her way as I undo my jacket ready to draw my gun. "I still think the service here's lousy. Or at least for food."

Giuditta starts to sneer, just as – predictably – Doyle pushes the doors open and they all whirl.

"Don't move," I say pleasantly, as Doyle moves to retrieve their weapons.

This is the precise moment that the kitchen doors fly open and a figure bursts out of it. Doyle, to his credit, keeps his weapon trained on Benfatto and his mates, as does Ruth, but then, suddenly, it's chaos.

Benfatto tries to draw his own weapon and Ruthie shoots him in the shoulder a millisecond after I take the holdall-carrier in the arm. I can see Doyle moving to grab their guns, Khan dashing from the kitchen in pursuit of what I recognise as the waiter I've seen before, and then Doyle's down in a tangled heap.

The second heavy starts to leg it, bolting behind the bar and back towards the kitchen, and Khan hesitates for a second and belts after him as I rush over to Doyle, not daring to shoot as they struggle on the ground.

The kitchen doors swing open again, I see out of the corner of my eye, and I'm vaguely aware of a stocky figure wielding something back in there, but need all my attention to kick Benfatto's weapon away and grab him while Mac deals with the guy I've shot in the arm and Ruth handcuffs the putana and Domenico to the rail of the bar amid a hail of insults.

Oh, Jesus. This is all we need. Doyle's on his knees and he's got a knife to his throat. Didn't see this guy come in… one of the waiters…

No…

The guy's babbling something, wild-eyed. Doyle's face is pinched but he says nothing. Then Bodie flings open the kitchen doors and stands there, horrified.

"Don't be stupid." Ruth speaks, and her voice is calm despite a tiny wobble. "Let him go – you've got nothing to gain."

This just brings about another stream of insults and the knife point hovers perilously close. Then I see a slight figure edging around behind him: Khan. Bodie tenses almost imperceptibly, and Ruth sees him too as she keeps the wounded heavy in her sights but doesn't react beyond a slight tightening of her fingers on the gun.

"So what d'you want, mate?" Bodie says to the waiter, trying to distract him. "C'mon. We can sort something out."

His voice isn't quite as steady as he'd like it to be, but he's doing a decent job.

I can see the guy's knuckles whiten around the knife, which I don't like one little bit, but then Khan literally pounces, slamming him away and to the floor. Bodie's only a hair's breadth behind him, and Doyle reaches for the knife.

"Stop it, Bodie," he says calmly as his partner grabs the Italian by the hair. "'E's mine."

Fear flickers in the dark eyes as Doyle straightens up, not without effort, and motions Khan away. Bodie grins slightly, watching.

"So, Angelo," Doyle says calmly. "Who killed the child? You?"

"Noooooooo," it's a gasp. "He did. Or those bastards…" Angelo nods in the direction of Benfatto and his two companions.

"Did he indeed," Bodie says pleasantly. "What d'you think, Ray? Balls or kneecap?"

"You can't!" Benfatto's face is a picture.

"Oh, he can," Khan says fiercely. "Believe me. In fact I'd be delighted to help out."

"An accident," Benfatto stutters. "An accident. A little too much of the drugs…"

Doyle takes two strides forward and slaps him, hard, across the mouth. I'm quite enjoying the little scene but then look over as Mac emerges with an elderly woman in tow.

"All sorted in there," he announces cheerfully, realising that things are in hand this side of it too. "Although it's definitely the first time I've ever seen somebody knocked out by a side of ham…"

"Marco!" The woman gasps, staring from Doyle to Domenico to Giuditta and finally to Benfatto, the two felled thugs and Angelo. "They –" she gestures to Khan and Mac, "- say Mimi, she is dead… killed by these… these…."

Words fail her, and Doyle pats her on the shoulder.

"It's the truth, love. And I'm afraid Domenico and Miss Putana here aren't exactly snow-white either. Come and sit down. Ruthie, you think you could break open something strong on the bar?"

Ruth grins slightly, not fazed either by the use of the pet name or the idea of being appointed bartender, and swings into action. Bodie's still a bit shell-shocked by the looks of it and starts giving Doyle a fairly thorough visual once-over but does leave off to thank Khan, to his credit. Knowing Bodie I'd half-expected him to give the poor bugger a lecture on the dangers of disarming people with knives but I think he's fairly impressed. I know I was.

Khan glances over at me as he snaps handcuffs onto a now wilting Angelo and suggests he should inform Cowley and get the plods in.

This sounds like a very good idea indeed, just as the glass of whatever it is that finds its way into my hand is extremely welcome. We've got over one – very major – hurdle, but as far as I'm concerned there are a few more to come.

---

---

Lack of sleep, the alcohol and painkillers doing rather interesting things to my concentration, plus a fair dose of relief, mean that I sit there watching Ruth defend me to Cowley in a sort of haze. I'm not 100% certain I'll have heard the last about it from Bodie, somehow but at least he's too busy worrying about Doyle to pay much attention to it right now.

Or maybe he'll leave it at that: he's not exactly a saint when it comes to women, but he seems to get away with it most of the time. Daft bugger – he's a weird mixture of tough guy and complete charmer, and with a soft spot for his partner that sometimes makes me sorry I'm the eternal one-man show.

Ruth's doing quite a nice line in the caring stuff at the moment, though, from what I've picked up from both what she's said and her body language.

"… tomorrow." Ruth's speaking and I stare at her blankly. Cowley's looking at me expectantly as well.

Ah, they must mean the whole writing up reports and getting another tongue-lashing stuff then. Never say I'm stupid, even if I'm not really all here. God knows what was in those pills of Khan's, but those plus the whisky are quite effective, I must say. And at least I don't have a partner to grumble at me about that like Bodie was doing to Doyle. So maybe the Lonesome Cowboy's got something going for it after all.

Got to answer them. Can't have Cowley demanding I go and see the doc and then receiving a report saying exactly what happened. Ruth's fobbed him off with something about me being in a fight, bless her. Still generous with my blessings, I am…

"Yes, of course. No problem," I manage, which seems to meet with his approval. He disappears and I admit to Ruth I've no idea what she just said. She purses her lips, and informs me that our most benign, magnanimous leader has suggested we get a good night's sleep and then get together to write our side of the report. No surprises there, then, if you don't count the fact he's actually thought about the sleep part of it.

I nod wearily and haul myself out of the chair. In an ideal world, Ruth would now drive me home, tend to my wounds and kiss me goodnight. Now who's the daft bugger? Ruth, I remember, has recently witnessed me being unresponsive to her overtures at Tosca, discovered I was messing around with Doyle's bird, and has rescued me from lying naked and handcuffed to a bed. I hardly think she's in 'ministering angel' frame of mind.

I'm wrong. Even about the goodnight kiss, although it's only a peck to my forehead after she's told me to get my sweater off, raided my first aid box for disinfectant and anointed my chest and belly with surprising gentleness despite her matter-of-fact approach to it all.

"Nice," I murmur, wishing I wasn't so bloody tired. She grins.

"What, no lewd suggestions about whether I want to inspect the below-the-belt damage?"

"Physical or mental?" I say grimly. "And no for the physical part at least. She hadn't got that far when you arrived. And I haven't said thanks properly yet."

"You're welcome," she says, still brisk. "Right, I'm going home. Take more painkillers if it hurts. And if it looks like any of those lashes that drew blood get infected, you'll just have to see a doctor."

I nod miserably, wishing I was Bodie and could come up with the suggestion that she should check them regularly just to make sure. Instead, I watch her pick up her bag, jacket and gun.

"Tell you what," I say on impulse. "Can I take you out to dinner sometime? Soon? As a proper thanks?"

She hesitates. Then takes pity on me yet again.

"You're on. Just anything but Italian," she says and grants me another brief peck, this time on my cheek. Lousy as I feel, things might just be looking up.

---

Well, this isn't the romantic tête-à-tête I'd hoped for, I must admit. Mind, the sight of Bodie peering at an Indian restaurant's menu and frowning has certain merits.

I'd been a bit nervous about seeing both he and Doyle, really: Bodie managed to swing a couple of days off in the end, apparently to make sure his partner wasn't about to engage in any more heroics. When Ruth comments on this, Doyle says he's been heroic anyway considering he's been force-fed with Bodie's cholesterol-rich fry-ups.

Both of them look fairly relaxed, though, and there's no mention of Cindy. Doyle even asks me how I'm feeling, so it looks as though it really has blown over.

Bodie stares around at the restaurant in between muttering about foreign food. It's definitely high-class Indian, I must say and now I'm feeling relaxed myself I realise I'm starving. Khan informed us earlier that his uncle was offering us special prices and service too, which Doyle didn't exactly sniff at.

When a sari-clad figure approaches our table, we all look up, even Ruth, and I have to admit the vision is rather pleasing.

"My sister," Khan says with a touch of pride. "She helps out sometimes."

Doyle isn't saying anything, but watches her as she starts pointing out some of the house specials. Ruth seems to be fairly expert on all this and takes us in hand, ordering various things and – which is yet another pleasant surprise – asks for my opinion on it all. She even shuffles a bit closer to me as she does so and I'm not complaining about that, either.

Bodie takes a sip of the beer after staring at it suspiciously for a while, and pronounces it drinkable. For Indian beer, anyway. He's watching his partner watching our waitress, which amuses me.

"Not getting any urges to nip round the back and fetch yer pinny and help her out a bit?" he asks Doyle as she makes her graceful way back to the kitchen.

"Hardly. Although from what I've heard la Mamma's busy assembling troops and fully intends to re-open Tosca before long," he says thoughtfully. "We should pay her a visit when she does, maybe."

"At least the Eyeties had decent steaks, from what I heard. And desserts," Bodie says, looking at a plate of appetisers that arrive.

"We have desserts," Khan assures him.

"Indian Swiss rolls, I suppose," Bodie grumbles, and Khan's eyes flicker slightly but why, I don't know. I thought the two of them had got over the whole cultural differences stuff.

Doyle's not eating. He's definitely fascinated by Khan's sister, which Ruth has also noticed as she gives me a slight dig in the ribs, a slight nod in that direction, and winks. More complicity, I note with a great deal of pleasure. I've been on my best behaviour for the last couple of days, while we wrote up reports, and enjoyed her company. Haven't pushed it, but I still hope she'll be up for an evening out with just the two of us. When she gets up and heads in the direction of the ladies' room, Bodie smirks.

"Romance in the air, eh?" he says, to nobody in particular. Doyle shoots him a 'shut up Bodie' glance, Khan looks at Doyle, and Doyle looks at me.

Khan's sister arrives with more food after a while. One plate – Bodie's – has a silver dome on it, which she lifts off with a flourish. There, amid all the Indian stuff, is a portion of fish and chips, still in the newspaper. So that's what Khan dreamed up.

"Be back with the vinegar, ketchup and the little plastic fork in just a moment, sir," the girl says sweetly as we all try hard not to laugh out loud. Bodie, to his credit, stares at the plate for a moment and then guffaws and states that this is real food and vastly superior to anything foreign, ta. Khan and I exchange glances: he looks ever-so-slightly relieved that Bodie's reacted like this rather than thump him.

"What do I get then?" Doyle says cheerfully as Bodie tucks in. "A pizza?"

"Nah," Khan says. "None of the family have got into Italian yet. Bit of a closed shop that is, or so far anyway – you never know. Although I did tell you we've got a relative with a chippy, which is where that came from…."

Fortunately, Bodie sees the funny side of this, even when Khan points a finger to the "Patel's Superior Ketchup" that he'd missed in his enthusiasm.

"So," says Doyle when we reach the end of the meal and our wine glasses are again filled – with Italian wine, which I expect is another of Khan's little schemes – "Here's to us, then. Thanks, Khan, and not just for bringing us here. And Ruth and Murph for their… research and self-sacrifice and all that."

Bodie stares at his partner.

"Oh, and you as well, Bodie. Suppose you came in useful too."

"Typical," Bodie rolls his eyes but there's more affection in them than anything else. "Ungrateful bastard."

"Charmin'," Doyle says. "Eat yer pudding and shut up."

Bodie does what he's told, and is fairly quiet since he discovers that Indians, or more precisely Pakistanis, make excellent ice cream.

"So," Doyle asks me quietly as we're finally on the point of leaving. "You don't have any secret designs on Khan's sister? Just so's I know?"

Ouch.

"Look…"

"Only kidding, mate. Like I said, forget it and keep working on Ruthie. I'm just going to nip back in and ask the lovely lady for a date while Bodie's arguing with Khan about colonialism and how India and Pakistan were far better off with the British running the show. Keep 'im occupied for me if he runs out of steam?"

I nod enthusiastically and wander over there. Ruth joins us and Bodie beams at her.

"Want a lift home, darlin', or are you off with Casanova here? Got yer handcuffs handy, Ruth, if you are?"

Ouch again.

"I'd only have brought handcuffs if I'd been seriously contemplating going anywhere with you, Bodie. Which I'm not."

Nice one, Ruth. Bodie starts looking around for Doyle, who actually emerges with Khan's sister before I need any more delaying tactics. Quick work indeed.

"Just dropping her off," he says airily. "Khan, as I'll be taking the motor, can you take Bodie home?"

Reluctantly, Bodie hands over the keys and shrugs, muttering something about at least this one not being a redhead. Maybe, he adds, he should take Khan for a real pint somewhere as they've just got time before they close. He knows these barmaids…

They all head for the cars, leaving Ruthie and I standing there.

"Now there's something," she says. "Doyle with a Pakistani girl in tow. That'll keep Bodie busy with the pointed comments, and Khan'll be keeping an eye on his sister. Hope our Ray knows what he's in for."

"Could be interesting," I agree. "Although Khan didn't exactly have a heart attack at the thought and he knows what Doyle's like."

"As in his performance with the putana?" Ruth giggles. "Apparently that was quite… steamy."

"Thought you'd have heard about that one by now," I say, remembering it rather clearly myself yet trying to push away the lustful thoughts of Ruth that are creeping in. I can't resist a try, though, even if I'm determined to be honourable Murph again. "You got your car?"

"No, came on the tube because I was rather hoping you'd take me home," she says. "As long no handcuffs are involved, that is…"

"Given 'em up for good, like whips," I assure her. "Didn't like 'em much in that context anyway. And I promise to behave myself if you'd like a coffee or something."

"Behave yourself?" she says sweetly. "I do hope not, Patrick. Can't let Doyle have all the fun, can we?"

-- THE END --

August 2003. The usual disclaimers apply.