---

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

...He fought every inch of the way but it didn't help; gradually, step by step, he felt himself moving nearer and nearer to the door. Already frantic, his fear grew even more unbearable as it began to open. Spurred on by growing terror, he managed to throw his weight against the door--he had to keep it out...keep them out...it mustn't get in...he couldn't let it get in... The door shook, rattling its hinges and he doubled his efforts even though he knew he was going to fail; his strength finally gave out and the darkness, suffocating, powerful and unrelenting, rushed in, sweeping over him and dragging him down...

Jolted free of his dream, Doyle found the nightmare continuing. Darkness still pressed in all around him and he shook his head, trying to clear his confusion. It was the wrong move and he felt his world tip and sway sickeningly; his ears buzzed furiously and his skin prickled with cold sweat as he lost the battle to keep the contents of his stomach.

Eventually, the dizziness faded slightly and the pain became less sharp--but the darkness remained. Using his good arm, Doyle eased the broken one to a more comfortable position across his chest. His whole body ached and he knew he was hurt badly--but how it had happened and who did it to him was lost and he felt too confused and hurt to struggle for the memory. He wiped away the itchy, dried blood from his face and felt the brush of lashes against his fingers. His eyes were open--but the darkness was still total; moving his head as much as he could without being overwhelmed by the spinning, sickening feeling as he searched desperately for a glimmer of light.

There was none.

It was a nightmare, his worst nightmare, and yet he knew he was awake. The knowledge was scarcely reassuring. "Who's there?" he croaked. His voice fell into the darkness and he waited for an answer. None came. Blind, he listened for some clue as to where he was--who was with him. His own breathing, raspy and fast, was deafening and, as a fresh wave of terror washed over him, he held his breath--straining to hear who might be out there in the darkness. For a tense moment he lay frozen, listening, his lungs burning as he held his breath back. Sick and dizzy, he let it go with a whoosh and a cough which shook his body, making him groan in pain. Just as the noise passed his lips he thought he heard something--he froze, skin prickling and the hair on the back of his neck bristling. "Who's there?" he whispered after a moment's complete silence. Doyle's heart raced as he thought desperately of what he should do. He had no idea where he was, how he got there or--even more terrifying--who was there with him. "Who are you?" he croaked painfully into the darkness. "What do you want?"

His voice bounced straight back at him from the thick walls. He had no way of knowing he was alone in his dark prison and, in his confused state, had no idea that the sounds he could hear were of his own making. Suddenly, fear became panic; he had to get out; had to get away; had to get back into the light. His strength recharged by the adrenaline surge, Doyle managed to move; he got his knees beneath him and tried to lift himself up but his head hit the ceiling before he could straighten up. Lashing out with his arms, he found that all the walls were close--very close. Under frantically searching fingers he felt the crumbling, gritty stonework and the spongy dampness clinging to the bricks. The truth of his position finally hit Doyle and he fought to get out. "Bodie!" he cried out as he scratched at the crumbling plaster. "Bodie! Bodie!" He was unaware of everything except the desperate need to escape his prison, his movements were wild and uncoordinated and, driven by panic, he hit his broken arm against the unyielding bricks. The flash of brilliance in the darkness was as welcome as the oblivion that swept over him.

The next time he awoke the darkness didn't surprise him and he just lay there, huddled against a wall, and waited. He was no longer sure what was real and what was not. Everything was dark, nightmare and reality merging over and over until he no longer had the energy to even wonder why it was happening.

---

Lake rang the doorbell a third and then a fourth time. Eventually, Bodie's voice growled at him via the security intercom. "Who the bloody hell is it?"

"Just be grateful I'm not Cowley and let me in--it's pissing down out here." Lake waited another few minutes before he heard the door buzz free. On the second landing the door to Bodie's flat was ajar and he walked in. "Careless, 3.7," he admonished. "I could have been a hitman out to get you."

"More likely to be the Man From The Prudential!" Bodie said lightly when he got his first glimpse of what his visitor was wearing. "Strewth!" he whistled. "Fucking hell, Puddle. Who'd you pinch that get-up from?"

"It's mine!" Lake replied indignantly. "Nothing wrong with it...just a bit..."

"Dated. Old-fashioned," Bodie supplied.

"Well, fits the image. Been doing some low key leg-work for the Old Man--could hardly go in looking like an undercover copper, could I?"

"Working on what?"

Damn, Lake thought, furious with himself. "Just sniffing around a few characters he hopes might lead to something on the drugs thing."

"Grasping at straws, is he?"

"Bloody feels like it," Lake complained, gratefully accepting the proffered drink. "Something's happened in the set-up and we don't know what. Everyone Day's had under observation over the past six months is running about like so many headless chickens!"

"What's happened?" Bodie asked curiously.

"God only knows!" exclaimed Lake. "We can't get to the bottom of it--had word there was going to be a large drop somewhere along the Kent or Sussex coast in the early hours on Monday morning. We had coast-guards and radar stations keeping watch for us. Then, about five o'clock yesterday a small plane on a scheduled flight from Brittany, en route to Biggin Hill, makes a slight detour, circles around The Downs for thirty minutes, then returns, top speed for Brittany without touching down. The French police radioed through that the plane was clean."

"They ditched the stuff in the Channel."

"Certainly looks that way--though we've no proof. Something must have gone wrong with the drop; no one met them so they ran back to France and ditched the lot as a precaution."

"Are they being held in France?"

"No. One of the passengers, 'a respectable businessman'--if you can believe that--said he remembered an urgent business matter he hadn't dealt with and ordered the pilot to return," Lake finished sourly.

"Just like that," Bodie said in disgust. "What's Day's verdict on what went wrong?"

"Oh, he...um..." Lake hedged. "Well, he thinks that they were tipped off on this side of the Channel. Although he hasn't actually said so in my hearing I understand he reckons that someone..."

"Someone...meaning 4.5?" Bodie enquired.

"Probably," agreed Lake. "Someone, probably Doyle, has alerted everyone over here that we're getting close--not that we really are!" Lake said. "We're no closer or further forward than we were three months ago--but don't quote me on that, Bodie, that's just my personal, uninformed opinion. Day, Mellish and Cowley are playing this very close. No one knows any more than they really need to--I shouldn't even have told you what I have," Lake finished wearily.

"You do know that I'm under observation?" Bodie asked quietly.

"Yeah--wasn't sure if you did, though."

"Be bloody stupid not to be--under the circumstances," admitted Bodie. "Phones tapped too. Cowley told me when my suspension was made official."

Lake grinned at Bodie's rueful tone. "Yeah, well, Cowley was asking for it. So, by all accounts, was Kelly. How's the eye, looks very...colourful."

"Not so bad now it's opened up a bit. How's Kelly?"

"Mobile, but limping; he asked me to say sorry for him being such a prick--hadn't meant to get at you like that. He doesn't know Doyle that well and only knew what he'd heard on the grapevine since he came on the squad."

"Didn't know him! Christ--Doyle's been on the squad for almost two years!"

"Calm down, Bodie," Lake said. "You can't blame him. Neither of you mix with the rest of us very much--and you've got to admit...Doyle has always been a bit...stand-offish."

"With most of the squad accusing him of being a fucking drug pusher and the other half believing him to be a sodding nancy boy I'm not bloody surprised!"

"No-one really thinks he's queer, Bodie," Lake protested.

"Oh no. They just think he let Kingsley fuck him to make life easier for himself. Christ...are they still on about that. I'd thought that bit of gossip had died a death by now!"

"Come off it, Bodie. A juicy titbit like that? Doyle could screw a whole row of chorus girls in the middle of the day room and they'd still say he had his eye on the bloke heaving the bloody curtain up and down! It's just gossip--livens up a dull day, that's all. We know he's not really queer."

Do we? Bodie though morosely. It would be ironic if, after all the months of quiet lusting after that body, they found out Doyle was gay. But what did his lusty thoughts make him--a hopeful homosexual--a man who had dreams about what he would do to his partner when, if, he ever got the chance--if, that is, he wasn't already dead and lying in some unmarked, unknown grave. His thoughts forced him back to reality; what about Ann? For the first time since Doyle's disappearance he actually thought about his partner's fiancée.

"The Coroner's Inquest. When is it--on the Holly woman," he clarified.

"It's scheduled for ten on Tuesday morning."

"In Eastbourne?"

"No, Horseferry Road. Cowley's slapped a 'D' notice on it. Nothing has shown up in the press except a report on a traffic accident. The full inquest will be held over until after Doyle's...until we find Doyle. The family want her body released for burial, there's no reason why it shouldn't be."

"Have you seen the post mortem report?" asked Bodie.

"Yes." He shouldn't have, of course. Both men knew that. Bodie didn't ask how he came to see the report. "She wasn't pregnant, you know," Lake said. "And, according to the family GP, she knew she wasn't. She had telephoned and got the negative test result Saturday morning."

So, thought Bodie, I wonder if Ray knew--knows--he corrected.

"Bodie," Lake said with a warning in his voice. "You're not thinking of going to the court, are you?"

"What if I am?" Bodie asked and Lake knew that his mind was already set.

"Bodie...you're on suspension. You turn up at the court, interfere with the proceedings and Cowley'll hang you up by your balls!"

But there was no turning Bodie from something he'd decided on and, after a period of pointless arguing, Lake gave in. "Have you got anything to eat," he asked, changing the subject. "I'm starving," he added, trying to look pathetic and rubbing a hand over his rumbling stomach.

"I expect there's something in the kitchen," Bodie said. "But only if you take that bloody jacket off--it's making my eyes go funny!"

After watching Bodie move aimlessly around his kitchen for a few minutes, Lake pushed him to one side. "Here, let me do it." He organised some food for both of them, guessing that they were probably equally in need of a good meal. "Blimey!" he said in surprise when he'd rummaged around the food cupboard and fridge. "Is this all you've got in? What the hell is this...vegetarian cheddar? Natural yoghurt and...I don't know, what's this?" Lake held out a container with some brown sludgy stuff clinging in dried, suspicious looking clumps to the sides of the jar.

"That...dunno. Something Ray bought. Tastes better than it looks," Bodie answered vaguely.

Lake dropped it into the bin along with the aged yoghurt pots. "This looks more like it; bacon and tomato...got any eggs? How about some dripping? I'll knock up a quick fry-up."

"Dripping?" Bodie asked. "Er...no, don't think so. There's some corn oil in that cupboard; I think Ray chucked the dripping pot out when he was living here. The frying-pan's in the back of that cupboard somewhere."

Careful to keep his eyebrows firmly in place, Lake kept quiet his amazement at the apparent revolution Doyle had fought--and won--in Bodie's kitchen and breezed around, chattering away nineteen to the dozen in an effort to keep his attention.

Finding it easier to let Lake get on with whatever it was he thought he was doing, Bodie slumped down at the small table and pretended to read the newspaper. He would have preferred to be alone but Lake wasn't entirely unwelcome. The observation on his flat was low key enough that it didn't intrude--apart from his knowing it was there; as if Ray was likely to turn up here, he thought bitterly. And what was Lake doing calling round? Was he acting on Cowley's orders? He didn't think so. He watched as Lake carefully cracked the eggs into a sizzling pan.

"One pan of heart-attack coming up," Lake joked as he caught Bodie watching him.

Bodie was confused; no, he wasn't here on Cowley's orders and, he realised, when Cowley found out he'd stopped by he would be for it--so why the hell had he stopped by? Bodie asked him.

Lake blinked in surprise at the sudden question. He finished dishing up the food and put the plates down on the table. "Returning a favour," he said softly. "You did ask me to," Lake said, looking straight at Bodie.

Suddenly, Bodie remembered 'You can do the same for me one day' and Lake's agonised reply, 'Christ! I hope not.' The words had been spoken late one night when Bodie had taken home a rather drunk and very unhappy Lake after his own partner's death.

"You think Ray's dead," Bodie said tonelessly.

"I don't think he's sold out, Bodie. Nor do I think he's been pulling the wool over our eyes the last few year," Lake said firmly, but gently. "You saw that house, you've seen her body, Doyle's car...it's been four days! Do you really think they'd have wrapped him up and carried him out in a rug if he was still alive and kicking?"

"He's not dead!"

"Bodie...be reasonable. I hope he's not dead as well...but if he isn't dead, where is he? The bloodstains the forensic boys found match his blood type. If he is alive he's hurt--how badly, only God knows. The state that place was in--Christ! If it wasn't smashed it was carved up--"

"Don't!"

"Bodie..." Lake said. "Face it, Bodie...chances are that he is dead."

"Who?" Bodie snarled angrily. "And why? For crying out loud...WHY?" At last Bodie was forced to admit his fears out loud. Yes, he knew that already, Ray was probably dead. Hearing someone else say it only confirmed it.

---

With Cowley's knowledge, if not his permission, Bodie arrived at the Coroner's Court in time for the hearing. He sat at the back of the room and listened as the formalities were observed. He guessed that the fragile-looking weeping woman was Ann's mother. She was being supported by a bewildered and tired-looking man who comforted her softly in an unmistakably American accent. Apart from the court officials and the CI5 men, the couple were completely alone. When it was over they stood up and just remained by their seats, clutching at each other.

"Mrs Harrison, Mr Harrison," Bodie said quietly. "My name's Bodie, I worked...I work with Ray Doyle. I just wanted to tell you--"

"Ray, have they found him?" Mrs Harrison asked urgently.

"No, no...not yet. But I'm sure he'll turn up soon. "I don't care what they say," she turned accusing eyes towards Day, who was watching them from the other side of the court. "Ray wouldn't hurt my Ann...he couldn't hurt her...he just couldn't..."

"Hush, now, sweetheart," Mr Harrison said anxiously, not sure how this brooding man with a very bruised and swollen face stood where his missing partner was concerned. The interviews they had had with the other men had been upsetting enough. Bodie recognised the cause for the man's anxiety and tried to reassure them.

"Everything was going so well for them," Mrs Harrison stumbled on. "I know we weren't too pleased at first...but then Ray explained...Official Secrets Act, he said... We had to let people think that awful trial...and prison...everything...we kept quiet about everything, didn't we Harry...Official Secrets Act... It was very hard...we wanted to tell our friends...but Ray said we couldn't...it was hard...but we tried...didn't we, Harry?" She broke down completely and her husband looked beseechingly at Bodie for help.

"Come with me," he said kindly. "I'll get someone to take you home."

Suddenly a commotion started outside the guarded doors of the courtroom. A uniformed policeman entered the room and crossed hurriedly over to Day.

"A man outside, sir," the P.C. said hurriedly. "Trying to enter the court--says he knew the dead girl, says he was engaged to her--"

Bodie and Day reached the outer door at the same time; snatching it open they burst into the corridor. The scene that greeted them was not what either of them expected. Two CI5 men and one of the Court bailiffs had pinned an angry looking man up against the wall--and it wasn't Doyle.

"I just want to know what happened!" the man cried out. "Let me go!"

Day signalled the men to release him. Suddenly free, the man stumbled before regaining his balance.

"Who are you, what's your name?" Day snapped out.

"Look, I don't know--" the man protested in a plummy voice.

"No, you don't, sonny," Day said coldly. "Name?"

"Trevor?" Ann's mother's voice sounded loud in the still corridor.

"Mrs Harrison, oh thank god, Mrs Harrison!" the man turned to Ann's parents. "Please, I only came to find out... Mother told me that Ann had been killed--I had to know--"

"Had to know what?" Bodie rapped out. "Mrs Harrison, do you know him?"

"Yes...yes, oh Trevor, what are you doing here?" she said anxiously.

"Mr Day, please!" said Ann's stepfather. "Let him go, he's a friend of the family; a close friend."

"Mother said I shouldn't come here," Trevor said to the Harrisons. "But I couldn't stay away. When I heard about the car I couldn't help but think--" The young man suddenly swallowed his words and gulped nervously.

"Think what?" Day asked.

Trevor gulped again as he realised the seriousness of his situation. In the scuffle the jackets of the men holding him had gaped open and his eyes widened impossibly at the sight of their guns. "Oh no," he muttered. "I can't... I can't...he'll kill me. He'll kill me...like... I can't...can't..."

After giving terse instructions for Cowley to be notified of the turn of events and for someone to take care of the Harrisons, Day, closely followed by Bodie, hustled the man along the corridor and into a small interview room where he was pushed down into a chair. Over the man's head Day locked eyes with Bodie in a grim contest of wills: Bodie refused to be beaten and eventually Day conceded defeat, allowing him to remain in the room.

The waited in a grim silence until a sharp knock drew all three men's attention; the young man jumping nervously, Bodie and Day unsurprised and expectant. Day cracked the door open and held a whispered conversation with whoever was outside. Bodie waited and the young man looked even more nervous and dripped perspiration. Eventually the whispered conversation was over, Day shut the door and turned his attention on the sweaty man.

"Trevor Scott-Willis," Day said crisply. "Former fiancé of Ann Holly. A respectable accountant from a respectable family background. The Harrisons speak very highly of you." Trevor relaxed a little and mopped the moisture form his face. "So," Day continued. "Why on earth have you turned up here causing all this fuss? Not exactly 'respectable' behaviour, is it?"

"I...I had to come..." he said hesitantly. "Mother told me about he car--the papers said it was a car crash...but Mother said...Mother said..." he faltered.

"What exactly did 'Mother' say, Trevor?" asked Day.

"She...she's been helping Constance...Mrs Harrison...since Sunday, since the police broke the news. It wasn't a car crash...Mother said it wasn't a car crash...and her boyfriend...another one...he's gone, hasn't he you can't find him...I was scared, but I had to find out...I couldn't bear wondering any more..."

Over the man's head, Day and Bodie looked at each other; there was no animosity between them this time, only puzzlement. They let Trevor ramble on, guessing he was too scared to respond to formal questions.

"...The first time... I didn't think anything about it...but then, after Philip--it could still have been a coincidence...there was no mention of anything suspicious...and then when he went to prison--I saw him then...he saw me and he laughed at me...said that I was the lucky one...then I knew, I just knew. But who could I tell, who would have believed me? He was gloating, laughing at me...he's mad...mad! Really mad!"

Bodie felt a prickle of unease run down his spine.

"What do you mean by mad? Do you mean angry--or insane mad?" Day asked, clearly sharing Bodie's unease at this odd turn.

"Most of the time," Trevor explained, "he's okay. Acts...you know, normal. But...but then, sometimes, you only have to look at him and know...I think he's really sick--he's insane, completely insane--he just tricks people into thinking he's normal..."

Day tried to make some sense out of the man's rambling statements.

"You said he was gloating about the trial--what was he gloating about?"

"I don't know for sure... Christ, he scared me so much I just wanted to get out of his way, right out of his way before he decided to kill me too."

Over Trevor's oblivious head, two pairs of stunned eyes met.

"So Ann's not the first person he's murdered?" Day asked; he heard but ignored the sharp gasp from Bodie but couldn't spare him a glance. "How many others?"

"I...I'm not sure... I don't know...not for sure."

"Yes, you do," Day barked. "He's gloated about it--you said so yourself. Stop messing me around!"

"I've no proof," Trevor stammered. "I can't prove anything, it's only what he said to me...he asked me if I realised how lucky I was, and wasn't I pleased he'd only told me to clear off...that he hadn't...hadn't made me...disappear like the others... I didn't believe him at first but then I remembered, they never found his body...and now...they're not going to find this one either..."

"Didn't find whose body?" Bodie said quietly, a faint ugly tingle of familiarity ringing various bells in his memory. A conversation, half forgotten and never taken seriously was slowly becoming clearer to him.

"Thorpe, Roger Thorpe," Trevor said. "They found the other one; Philip at the bottom of a cliff; an accident the reports said but it wasn't an accident--I'm sure of it."

"Philip was found under the cliff--slipped over the edge on an early morning run and Roger Thorpe was drowned on a fishing trip in some loch up in Scotland," Bodie told Day, hardly believing what was happening.

"Who the hell are they?" Day asked. "And why did Doyle want them dead?"

"Not Doyle!" Trevor gasped in surprise. "No, not Doyle--he's probably killed Doyle as well!"

"Who the hell are we talking about then?" Day asked exasperatedly.

"Him!" replied Trevor. "Him, her father; Ann's father."

---

Cowley's office was fairly bristling with barely contained emotions: the computer search on Charles Holly had turned up some remarkable coincidences. The files had been there all the time--waiting for someone to find them and George Cowley was already planning the enquiry into why it had taken so long! Conroy, the object of Day's recent intensive observation, was, it turned out, married to the sister of Charles Holly. The photographs of Doyle with Conroy had been taken at a family celebration: the silver wedding anniversary of his fiancée's aunt and uncle. The information on Charles Holly confirmed everyone's suspicions--he was an ex-RAF officer whose service had been abruptly terminated in the late fifties when he had been declared 'medically unfit' and summarily discharged. The information eased out of Ann's bewildered mother told them that her ex-husband's mental health problems had been made worse when he was dismissed from the service; he'd suffered several breakdowns, each worse than the last. Unable to cope any longer with her husband's unpredictable behaviour, Constance had left him--taking their young daughter with her. The divorce had been a long and ugly affair made worse by Charles Holly's demands that his daughter be returned to him. Because of his unstable mental condition Holly was denied both custody and access by the courts and following another more serious breakdown he was committed to a mental institution. With her ex-husband now firmly out of her life, Constance Holly returned to her own family and began building a new life for herself and her little daughter.

Trevor Scott-Willis, visibly shaken to find himself involved in the unfolding drama, filled them in on Charles Holly's continuing dangerous obsession with his daughter. He told them how, shortly after the announcement of his engagement to Ann, her father had confronted him, warning him that the cost of 'interfering' with his daughter would be high. Convinced that Holly would carry out his threat and ashamed of his cowardice, Trevor had left Ann without any explanation, never once thinking that he ought to inform someone of Holly's dangerous behaviour.

From a safe distance over the years, Trevor had seen the tragedy that hit all the men who became involved with Ann--watched the tragic events in silence because he was still terrified of Holly: only now, when it was too late for Ann, had he talked--his fear of Charles Holly still strong but superseded by the fear of what the grim-faced CI5 men would do to him if he kept anything back.

Cowley had listened to Scott-Willis's account of Charles Holly. He didn't doubt the young man's word at all; everything he said only confirmed what he had long believed: Ray Doyle was innocent, his only 'crime' had been to fall in love with the wrong girl. There was little doubt left in anyone's mind that Charles Holly was insane.

Following Cowley's orders Bodie handed Trevor over to someone to take him home and hurried back to the small office where he entered without knocking.

"Bodie!" Cowley snapped. "I gave you orders to see Mr Scott-Willis got home safely."

"Yes, sir," Bodie agreed smoothly. "I handed him over to Doug Johnson, he'll be returned to his mother in next to no time."

"Bodie, need I remind you that you are on suspension? You are not involved in this investigation--"

"With due respect, sir," interrupted Bodie, "unless my partner is still under suspicion of being responsible for Miss Holly's murder--"

"Which in the light of Scott-Willis's statement seems highly unlikely," admitted Day wearily.

"Och...sit down man and stop glowering!" Cowley waved Bodie to a chair and slumped back into his own chair. "We are assuming of course that Holly was aware that Doyle and his daughter were engaged again, there is still a possibility that he is not aware--"

"He knows," Bodie said. "He's been watching them for the best part of a year at least."

"Just a minute," Day said. "You're telling us that Doyle knew he was being watched?"

"He knew," Bodie said. "He told me. He asked me if I was keeping tabs on him as well."

"As well?" asked Day.

"As well as you," Bodie replied.

"I've not been watching him," said Day.

"That's what Cowley said," Bodie answered grimly. "And that's what I told Doyle--only he didn't believe me, he thought I was lying to him--"

"He reported that he was being watched?" Day queried in amazement.

"I reported it," Bodie said. "I told you," Bodie nodded at Cowley, who nodded back at him. "I went back and told him that he wasn't under observation. He wouldn't believe me--or maybe he believed I was being kept in the dark about it."

"Who did he think it was?" asked Day.

"You," Bodie said crisply. "Or, more to the point, internal security under your instructions."

"He thought it was I.S. and so he did nothing--for a whole year?" Day asked incredulously.

"He thought he knew who it was and knew there was nothing he could do to stop it," Bodie said tiredly. "Then, after a while, he stopped mentioning it, I think he just got used to it...just tried to ignore it."

"Jesus, Bodie--why didn't he report--"

"Report what--that you'd put I.S. to watch him?"

"But I didn't, there was no watch--"

"I know that now!"

"When was the last time Doyle mentioned to you he knew he was being watched?" Cowley asked.

"Ages ago, last summer...about July."

"He wasn't overly concerned about it?"

"No," Bodie said, just about sick of it all. "I think he was just resigned to it. He knew Day wanted to hang him and there was nothing he could do he hadn't already done to try and convince everyone he was telling the truth."

Cowley and Day each looked a little sick themselves. All the facts had been there just waiting for someone to put them together in the right order.

"And Holly," Cowley said after a few moments' awkward silence. "You've got the connection between him and Conroy sorted out?"

"Yes, sir," responded Day. After nearly eighteen months' hard work, half an hour's computer time had tied up all the loose ends. "Conroy runs a small aircraft business in which Holly is a silent partner. Conroy apparently does all the donkey work and Holly supplies the finances and business connections. On paper it's only a small pocket-book company and supposedly Conroy's only source of income. Holly's family is very wealthy and money has never been a problem but Conroy comes from a very different background. His lifestyle does not fit with his declared income--even taking into account the money he got when his wife died last year.

"All along we've known that the man we were looking for was a financier; Conroy does the work and Holly provides the backing. Holly is our 'Christmas Man,'" Day ended bitterly: there was no feeling of success left after the mess they found themselves in; because of his conviction that Doyle was the missing link in the chain he'd spent too long looking in the wrong direction.

They now knew why Monday's drop had not happened; not because of some tip-off but because the Christmas Man had not arrived to make the payment. Everyone, it seemed, not only CI5, was looking for Charles Holly.

"When was the last time Holly was seen?" Cowley asked.

"Friday afternoon, a neighbour from his London apartment said she saw him getting into his car--an old farm-style jeep; said she got the impression he was going away for a few days. He has a large house in Friston--only about ten miles from the cottage 4.5 and the girl were staying at: Murphy is checking it out now; he'll be reporting in soon."

"I'm going there," Bodie said, getting to his feet and making for the door.

"You're on suspension, Bodie," Cowley barked. "You'll go nowhere without my say-so!"

"Sir!"

"Murphy will call in if there's anything to report."

"But sir--"

"Bodie!" Cowley's voice stopped the younger man in his tracks. Murphy chose that moment to call in his report and that was the only reason why Bodie remained in the office.

"I've found the jeep and the missing rug," Murphy reported. "The house is empty and there's no immediate trace of the suspect or 4.5."

"Keep looking," Cowley ordered. "Organise a full search--I'll be with you shortly." Breaking the connection, Cowley called the control room and issued a flurry of instructions. The three of them left the building for the helicopter base at a brisk speed: suspension or not, Bodie was with them all the way. Eager to be away, Cowley had not the time or, in all honesty, the heart to push the point any more.

The helicopter landed in an open field and they were met by Murphy and the superintendent of the local police force. Ducking under the whirling blades, the three men went straight to the waiting cars.

Murphy launched into his report as soon as the cars were moving away. "The house is empty and the outbuildings. There are more buildings still to be checked out on the far east of the estate--they're being done now."

"There's no-one there at all?" Bodie asked.

"A couple of men came up from the village when they saw the police cars arrive. Father and son, Sean and Julian Ede. Senior works for Holly as a groundsman and caretaker, Junior works with the livestock."

"Livestock?" Bodie asked as they sped along the rapidly darkening lanes toward the house.

"It's a pig farm," Murphy reported with the faintest glimmer of amusement. They arrived at the house just as the mobile lighting unit was being set up. "We'll need that to check the outbuildings thoroughly--not all the huts have electricity. I'll show you where the rug was found."

Steering the car past the sprawling red-bricked house, Murphy took a sharp turn and drove them down a narrow tree-lined roadway which, after several twists and turns, opened out to reveal a collection of dilapidated whitewashed buildings. By now the light was almost gone and the men were searching the low buildings by flash-lamps.

"According to the stockman, these buildings aren't used very much; mainly for storage and occasionally as quarantine pens. The rug was found just behind here--Mrs Walker identified it." Murphy led them to a large metal container. "Holly must have tried to burn it; looks like it was too thick and acted as a damper on the fire."

"How far has the search extended?" asked Cowley.

"All the outbuildings have been checked out but a finger-search will have to wait until tomorrow, same for the fields. The farm covers over three thousand acres; and most of it is pasture and woodland, but the biggest source of income is the pigs."

His heart sinking lower every minute, Bodie walked back along the dark lane towards the lights of the house. The place was swarming with people although bands of white tape across each doorway prevented them from entering the house. Showing his ID, Bodie walked through the lower rooms watching silently as the forensic boys searched for the slightest evidence that anything untoward had taken place here.

The house was richly furnished with both period and modern furniture; heavy oak sideboards and cabinets decorated with silver and crystal filled the receptions rooms, the kitchen was right up-to-date, very 1970's with stainless steel and bright Formica, and the armchairs in the drawing room were modern, comfortable and expensive looking.

Seating himself carefully in one of the huge chairs, Bodie sighed. He felt useless; what on earth was he doing here? he asked himself. What was the point of haring around the country in top-speed helicopters?

"Bodie," Cowley called as he entered the room and found Bodie more asleep than awake. "Bodie!" he called louder.

"Mmm?" Slowly, Bodie managed to dredge up an answer of sorts. He wasn't asleep--he was just finding it hard to function.

"These were found on the ground outside; do you recognise them?" Cowley held out a bundle of wet papers limp and mud-smeared; Bodie identified them easily.

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "Ray's sketches." He took them and leafed through the sorry-looking collection. The outside pages were stuck together, they must have been lying on the ground during all the rain of the past four days; but the middle pages were almost undamaged. Once again Bodie found himself looking at Doyle's sketches--it was uncannily like peering into his partner's soul and he could most feel what sort of mood Doyle had been in as his pencil had flashed over the paper: there was Ann, perched on a bar stool in a room overflowing with Christmas trees, decorations, holly and mistletoe; another of her lying asleep with her hair spilling out across a smooth pillow. Doyle had been experimenting with new techniques since Bodie had last browsed through his work; several pages were devoted to cartoons and they were an even better barometer from which to gauge Doyle's ever-changing mood. Simple in style, they were all blunt and direct in their humour, sometimes outrageous, occasionally bitterly critical, a few whimsical fancies and a few odd incidents of CI5 life that Bodie recognised and knew had always tickled his partner's funny bone. Even in cartoon form there was no mistaking the look of embarrassed outrage on Puddle's face as he walked through a pile of dung left behind the ceremonial horses in Whitehall after Trooping the Colour last year. As before, around the edge of each page there were lots of little half-finished pictures, rough outlines and cameos. Little cartoons and drawings that Ray had toyed with and, on looking closer, Bodie realised that a lot of them were of him--in fact, most of the edge drawings were of him, the cartoons instantly recognisable but the sketches less so--to Bodie's eye at least.

Folding the pictures up and sliding them into the plastic bag, Bodie watched the sketches being tagged for identification by the forensics men.

---

Bodie declined the lift of a car back to London; he'd stay until they found Ray. He was here, somewhere, Bodie knew it. He sat in an armchair, dozing off at times all through the night and at dawn he went out with the first search team as they began the painstaking fingertip search of the Holly estate.

At nine-thirty on Wednesday morning, five days after Ann had been killed, they found her father.

Bodie looked at the body in despair: Where the hell was Ray? Unable to face his colleagues' sympathetic, knowing glances, Bodie returned to the house. They knew as well as he did that finding Holly dead meant the slow search for Doyle's body would continue to drag on.

When the call from Cowley came through Bodie bucked against his orders. "I'm staying here," he told the distant voice. "There's no point me going with the body, I am still on suspension, after all--"

"You'll do as you're ordered, Bodie," Cowley snapped. "I can't spare anyone else," he added with unexpected understanding. "I don't want the local police to take over anything to do with this operation--call me once the coroner has a preliminary report." The line clicked and went dead before Bodie could protest any further.

---

His lips tightly compressed, Bodie looked down at the body lying on the table. Stripped of his clothing and bereft of dignity and privacy in his death, Holly's body was prepared by the coroner's assistants. Deft fingers measured and recorded his height and weight, small crosses were placed on a simple sketch showing the location of bruises and cuts. The preliminaries over, the doctor moved in to begin the examination proper.

As always, Bodie braced himself mentally and physically for what was about to happen. It was something he knew he would never get used to.

"Mr Bodie," the doctor said quietly as his hands worked. "There is really no need for you to be present for this--the constable will witness it. His clothes are all over there, you might as well check them and get them over to your labs."

Pausing only to spare the green-tinged constable a sympathetic but relieved grin, Bodie left the room.

Sifting through the contents of Holly's pockets, Bodie found a small wallet packed with photographs of Ann. He noticed at once that not one of the snaps had been posed for--most of them were of fairly poor quality as though taken hurriedly. One or two caused Bodie to frown, there was something about them...the angle... He telephoned through the HQ immediately.

"There's a block of flats directly opposite where Ann Holly lived. It looks as if Daddy had a camera fixed up to take shots of her. Start on the third floor...looks like the right height, maybe the fourth--check it out," he said tersely. "Hold on..." the next snap caught his attention. "A window with vertical blinds."

Bodie sorted through the rest of Holly's wallet and pockets then made a cursory check of the rest of his clothing; the lab boys would go through the clothes fibre by fibre if they had to. He was looking at the mud-caked trousers when he was stung. Startled by the unexpected sharp pain, Bodie dropped the garment on the floor. His thumb had a small puncture mark and, sucking it, he gingerly picked the trousers up again, shaking them gently. There it was, a lethal-looking thing covered with sharp, needle-fine bristles. It was caught in the leg's turn up, its bristles trapping it securely in the woollen fibres.

Carefully, Bodie checked the rest of the clothes and then bagged them up and signalled for the forensic boys to take them away.

---

"Death from natural causes," the coroner said eventually. "He had a history of heart complaint and suffered a massive heart attack; he's been dead--approximately--around four to five days. Difficult to be more precise, the body was lying in open country, the weather has been very mild, very wet...he's badly decomposed."

"There are some marks on the body that might interest you, look," the doctor pulled the concealing green sheet from Holly's legs. "Here, and here, the bruising is well defined and the skin has been broken." Leaving the legs uncovered, the doctor pulled out Holly's right hand. "And these here, clear finger marks...and again, here." Holly's face was uncovered. "Bruises and scratches. Someone had a good try at gouging his eye out!"

"Any ideas as to what caused the marks on his body?" Bodie had to ask--even though he knew the answer already.

The doctor looked at Bodie before saying carefully, "I could perhaps offer an educated guess."

"An educated guess," Bodie nodded in agreement, understanding what the doctor meant.

"The man that's missing...Doyle?" Bodie nodded. "How big was he in relation to Holly?" Bodie looked at Holly and made a rough guess. "So, Doyle was a head shorter and maybe two or three stones lighter," the doctor paused and then called his assistant over. "It'll be easier for me to demonstrate... Carole, would you stand like this...now, push me away...try to imagine that I am throttling you--now push me away." Carole's hands gripped the doctor around his wrists, tugging and pulling at them. "You're getting desperate, Carole...you're panicking..." Carole's hands moved up to his face and made as if to claw and scratch at his face. "I'm choking your life out, Carole...that's it...well done, that's enough. Thank you." Releasing his hands from his assistant's grip, the doctor rubbed at the redness left by her hands. "That is how I think Holly gained his bruises, Mr Bodie."

"That is your educated guess," Bodie answered hollowly.

"I've been in forensic medicine for a number of years, Mr Bodie. I've seen these marks before; I'm almost certain that this man has made a very serious attempt to strangle someone who managed to some extent at least, to fight back."

"Holly was fifty-five years old, overweight, flabby and with a weak heart!" protested Bodie. "Doyle's thirty-one, fit, strong and highly trained in hand-to-hand combat--how the hell could someone like...like this strangle him?"

"The bruising on Holly's upper torso appears confined to his right side, the left side is virtually unmarked. It is more than likely that Doyle was incapacitated in some way and only had the use of his left hand."

'Incapacitated in some way,' Bodie thought grimly. Even blindfolded with one hand behind your back you should have been able to take him--how the fuck could you let someone like him get you, Ray!

---

Bodie passed the report back to control and headed back to the farm. The driveway in front of the house was still full of cars, vans and people, there was even a tea-waggon serving soup and sandwiches for the teams of searchers. Inside the house it was quiet, only a few people milling about. Day found him in the sanctuary of the drawing room.

"We pulled Conroy in," he announced in a subdued voice. "Now all we have to do is listen to him--he doesn't know Holly's dead and so he's telling us everything he knows--hoping we'll be grateful and go easy on him. He's also spilling everything about how Holly stitched Doyle up four years ago."

"Bit bloody late. Still," Bodie said harshly, "better late than never, I suppose!"

"Bodie--"

"You couldn't leave him alone, could you?" Bodie accused. "Never once did you concede the possibility that he just might be telling the truth."

"All the way through this investigation Doyle's name kept cropping up," Day retorted angrily. "What was I supposed to do? Ignore the facts? Pretend the facts weren't there? Come on, Bodie," Day said tiredly, all his anger suddenly draining away. "Even now the links are still there--only now," he said quickly, forestalling Bodie's interruption, "only now we can see those facts differently. Christ, out of all the birds in London why'd he have to get involved with his daughter." Day paced the room, taking his frustration out on the carpet. "Boy, Holly must've really flipped when he realised that not only was his daughter cavorting about with a man but that man was a flamin' policeman and, what was worse, on the drug squad...Christ!" Disgusted with himself, Holly and the world in general, Day collapsed into one of the armchairs.

"That's Doyle," Bodie said humourlessly. "Certainly knew how to pick 'em, did Doyle." Too late Bodie heard himself using the past tense and, sharing Day's disgust, threw himself into another chair. In the relative quiet of the drawing room the two men shared an uneasy truce as they each took the time to recharge their exhausted reserves of energy and battered defences.

---

By Friday morning most of the possible sites had been explored without any success and the searchers were preparing to move further afield. The last place on the Holly estate they were still working on intently was a large lake on the north boundary. Bodie watched the divers as they sifted through the muddy lake bed. He'd seen the technicians a few days earlier taking their samples of the evil-smelling mess found in the pig pens. If they had to find Doyle anywhere, he begged silently, let it be in the lake, or in a shallow grave--anywhere but in the mess taken away in bottles, jars and bags to be examined under microscopes.

By early afternoon, wet through and thoroughly chilled, Bodie returned to the house. The drawing room, which had been taken over by the CI5 men as 'theirs,' was occupied by a grim-faced Cowley and an even grimmer Day. Not particularly wanting to see either of them, Bodie drifted aimlessly around the house. Staring out through the mullioned windows, he watched the distant activity. He still felt cold, only he knew it was nothing to do with the weather outside. He was still finding it hard to accept and, probably until they found his body, he wouldn't be able to fully accept it.

Absently he rubbed at the small inflammation on the pad of his thumb; sighing heavily, he wandered on to the next window and the next depressing view. He knew that Cowley wanted all the squad men to return to London and leave the search in the hands of the local police; but he couldn't leave, not yet. Cowley would just have to understand and accept that, he thought; besides, Bodie reasoned, he was still officially on suspension.

Forcing his depressing thoughts aside, Bodie began to really look at the house he was in, seeing it as a visitor would and not as a 'scene of a crime.' If things had been different he could almost envy Doyle marrying into such an obviously wealthy family--if things had been different! Small wonder really that Constance Harrison was not impressed by her only child's choice of husband. Charm and sex-appeal didn't rate too highly with women of her background; only family, wealth, influence and the old school tie. Bodie chuckled to himself; he'd only seen Doyle wearing a tie a few times and he was damn sure it didn't remain neatly knotted for even half of the evening! Bodie found he had very little sympathy for the pathetic Constance; coping reasonably well with the sudden death of Ann, she had only been temporarily shattered when her ex-husband's involvement was fully revealed--she had, to Bodie's mind, been far too anxious to make sure that the 'D' notice would prevent the full details of the family scandal leaking out to the press.

It had been Cowley's diplomatic evasion of her questions that let Bodie know he wasn't the only one hoping against the odds that they might still find Doyle alive. If Doyle was dead, there would be no reason to keep the full truth from the press--and, ironically, Ray could still get a public acknowledgement of his innocence--albeit posthumously.

Continuing his wanderings through the house, the reached the gallery-like corridor leading off the main entrance hall before anyone spotted him.

"Proof," Lake's voice cut into his thoughts. "Proof positive, as if we ever needed it, that crime does occasionally pay," he said cynically.

"No," Bodie disagreed lightly. "All this," he waved a hand around the gallery, "been in the family for generations--centuries even. Holly..." Bodie shrugged. "Just a bad apple."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, if I were you. This house and its occupants have probably all been involved in smuggling since the year dot! Probably a family of 'wreckers': smugglers, wreckers...Holly's just the end of a long line."

"Smugglers," Bodie said, distracted and oddly cheered by Lake's arrival. "This far inland?"

"I've been talking to that superintendent, he's not as daft as he looks," Lake said conversationally. "Local history buff. That lake over there used to be fed by a river that went on down to the sea. It's only about two miles away, you know. No time at all in a boat."

"What happened to the river?"

"Changed course; dried up...not sure," Lake said vaguely.

"Smugglers..." The thought made Bodie uneasy but he was unable to say why.

"Born in the wrong time, I was," said Lake cheerfully. "Can really see myself wearing a Stewart Granger shirt and swashbuckling all over the countryside..."

As Lake prattled on about his harmless fantasies, Bodie's mind was buzzing furiously...if only he could-- "This house was really used by smugglers?" he asked, interrupting Lake's happy musings.

"What--oh, er...yes." Surprised by the fierce expression on Bodie's face, Lake found himself asking, "Why?"

"I'm not sure...it's just something you said..." Bodie was thinking furiously. "What the super. told you, that's documented fact, you're certain he wasn't just spinning you a line?"

"He's genuine, Bodie. I'm sure of it."

"Smugglers...they'd bring the contraband up the river from the coast...they'd have to store it somewhere..."

"Secret caves," Lake suggested.

"Caves; tunnels--even hidden cellars or secret passages!"

"The house is old enough for all of those. Christ!" Lake said, wide-eyed. "We've been looking in the wrong fucking place!" he shouted, realising at last where Bodie's thoughts had been leading him to.

As Lake dived out of the door, Bodie was already tapping on the wooden panels and walls.

---

While Lake organised a team to search the house again, Bodie prowled restlessly from room to room, his eyes scanning the walls, assessing their thickness and whether or not a hidden passageway or bolt-hole could be hidden there.

Ray was here, Bodie thought fiercely. All along he'd known Ray was close. The irony of the situation did little to ease his bow-taut nerves. All this time they'd been looking in the wrong place--he was here, Bodie knew it. The superintendent who had first alerted them to the possibility of a smugglers' hideout was giving the search team a brief rundown on what sort of things to look for and the most likely places--unable to concentrate on the history lesson and desperately aware of the imperative to hurry, Bodie feverishly began his own search. Six days they had been looking; if he was in the house he was well hidden as there had been no sounds to reveal his whereabouts--six days...the thought burned in Bodie's mind. Was it too much to hope for...

The search progressed through the house and Bodie found himself in the library. Crowded with furniture and each shelf full of books, dusty but immaculate tomes, some of which were undoubtedly as old as the house they were in.

Bodie felt a tingle of sensation on the back of his neck...he scanned the room intently. His intuition didn't fail him often--and there was something wrong with the room... He began pulling books from the shelves, searching for some lever or button that would cause a panel to move away. Careless of the value of the books, he threw them onto a table; he worked systematically along the shelves. At some point Lake joined him and they worked silently, urgently; unconsciously aware of the imperative to hurry.

Halfway round the room Bodie paused--the central table was overloaded with discarded tomes; he threw them instead on top of a writing desk. Going back to the shelves, something made him turn again to look at the desk...no, not the desk...beside the desk.

Forgetting the shelves, Bodie stepped over to the large bureau: he stared at the flower arrangement that decorated it as he absent-mindedly rubbed his sore thumb. There was something about the flowers...his thumb throbbed anew as he touched the sore spot, drawing his attention to it...his eyes returned slowly to the flowers: it was a colourful display of dried and silk flowers, a simple arrangement to please the eye and add to the beauty of the room. Bodie ran his hands lightly over the display; they rusted in protest and pricked and scratched him back. He recognised on prickly stem: mindful of the sharp points he sucked at the small hurt on his thumb.

About to turn back to the shelves, Bodie stopped dead...the arrangement looked...uneven. Floristry never having been a required skill in the army or in CI5, Bodie was at a loss to identify what was wrong. "Puddle, come here...can you see anything...wrong with this thing?" he asked, unwilling to ignore his intuition but reluctant to make a fool of himself. "Hang on, what's this...this one's broken off. The stem looks a bit like this one, don't you think?"

Comparing the broken stem to the one beneath the wicked-looking teasel, Lake agreed.

"Found one of those things caught up in Holly's clothes...in his trouser leg turn-up!"

The two men looked hard at the chest-high bureau. The arrangement was level with their shoulders. As one they moved to pull the bureau away from the wall.

"Christ," Lake groaned. "It's bloody heavy..."

"It's moving, just...push...once more."

"Holly couldn't have moved this by himself--"

"Bingo!" Bodie yelled in triumph. The panel behind the bureau was scored with horizontal lines across the top and bottom. Squeezing into the narrow space, Bodie began feeling for the catch.

Bodie's yell brought the others running, the superintendent arriving swiftly to tell Bodie what to look for. "Let me," he said after Bodie fumbled uselessly for a moment or two. "I know what to feel for." After a few seconds' consideration Bodie moved away and let the uniformed man in. "Somewhere there should be a catch...providing the mechanism still works..." The superintendent ran his fingers over the ornately carved panel. "Sometimes a simple spring--ha!" Something moved under his fingers, then the panel moved slightly. There was some fumbling before it was moved to one side and hidden behind a neighbouring panel. They were now faced with what looked like a plastered wall. The super crouched down to examine it. "Seen one of these before...very clever," he said. "The wooden panel is only camouflage...this is the real entrance...a slight pressure is all that should be...needed..." He pushed against the wall. "If only I could find the right spot...usually off-centre...simple balance mechanism really--" The wall moved suddenly and the superintendent was pitched forward into the darkness, falling on his hands and knees.

"Well?" a single breathless voice asked.

"Phew..." The super sniffed. "Can't see a damn thing...smells...pitch black in here...I need a torch."

Bodie grabbed at a cigarette-lighter and elbowed the man out of the way, pushing in past him. The lighter gave only a dim glow but, at the edge of its reach he could make out a shoe. He held the light up and there was Doyle.

"Get some more light in here!" he yelled. Doyle wasn't moving, the noise and the light not causing him to stir at all. Heart pounding, Bodie inched in, keeping his head down and shuffling into the space. He took a tentative breath. Although foul, he couldn't smell the unforgettable odour of death... "Ray?" he said softly. He stretched out and touched Doyle's leg, shaking it gently. "Ray?" he whispered, almost afraid of disturbing the sleeper.

"Is he alive?" A voice called into the gloom. "Bodie, is he alive?"

"Ray?" Hands shaking, Bodie tried to find a pulse. "Ray?"

"Bodie?" the voices all clamoured anxiously.

"I...I don't know..." he shouted back, suddenly angry. "I don't bloody know!" There, he felt it beneath his fingers. And again. "Yes...yes, I think so... Yes!"

Then the light was there and, after what seemed an age, a doctor and an ambulance. Carefully, Doyle's unconscious body was placed on a stretcher and hurried out to the vehicle. The searchers returning from muddy, waterlogged fields for a hot cup of tea and a sandwich could only watch as the ambulance roared past them.

---

Sitting at Doyle's head, Bodie watched anxiously as the ambulance crew, under the doctor's instructions, fixed up a drip and oxygen mask, then cut away the soiled clothing. With soft pads they swiftly cleaned the worst of the filth away and then wrapped the still body in warm blankets.

The doctor recorded his patient's heart rate and blood pressure, and peered into Doyle's eyes--his grim look didn't lift once and Bodie's fear returned.

In the harsh light of the ambulance the week-old bruising was still black and blue, covering most of Doyle's throat, and the image of the coroner demonstrating what might have happened to Doyle was all too vivid for Bodie.

"Will he make it?"

"We'll know more later," evaded the doctor.

"How is he?"

"Not that good," the doctor admitted quietly. "He's badly dehydrated and I suspect a serious concussion. I think he's been unconscious for a long time."

"He'll make it," Bodie said--and the doctor wondered who he was really talking to.

---

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Gowned and wigged, the judge leant heavily on the pulpit as he delivered his sermon. All alone in the front pew he had no option but to look up at the judge as he preached of the fires of hell and the eternal damnation of souls and knew that out of the entire congregation it was his soul, his evil ways that were being denounced. In the stalls behind the pulpit the choir were shocked into pious indignation as his misdeeds were listed: faces he recognised but names that only half formed in his mind joined in with the condemnation being heaped upon him.

He refused to bow his head with shame, he wouldn't give them the pleasure of seeing him throw himself on their mercy.

Then, the sermon was over and he waited for sentence to be pronounced. But, one by one the congregation filed out past him; Mum, John, Kevin, Uncle Jack, Dad, Julie, Carole. Names, faces, more names and even more faces, friends from school days, from college, Don Taylor, Mike Behan, friends old and new. As the people in his life went by they all left him alone without a sound passing from anyone's lips and in their eyes he could see that he had already ceased to exist.

Unable to stop himself, he followed them out. He recognised the scene that greeted him only too well. The funeral cars stood polished and gleaming by the cemetery gate as the family gathered around the soon-to-be-filled grave. As he approached the grave they all, as one, turned their backs on him. He would have stopped, unable to go on, if it hadn't been for a light touch on his arm and a soft voice whispering in his ear.

"It's all right, everything's going to be all right, I promise," the voice said and, for some reason, he knew he could rely on that soft promise and it gave him the courage to take a few more steps forward. But then realisation struck and his new-found courage faltered.

The grave was his.

They were all waiting for him to climb down into the grave. It was deep and dark. Hands pushed and pulled at him, urging him towards the rickety stepladder and with no other option left he began the descent. The further down he went the colder and darker it became. He tried to rise up again but the hands pushed him down. The darkness welled up and swallowed him and he felt helpless. Way, way up he could just see a glimmer of light but he knew that any attempt to reach it would be thwarted by the reaching hands and he would be forced back into the darkness...

---

From his seat Bodie watched everyone arrive and take their places. Positioned deliberately at the back, he could see everyone but remain unseen. He watched as the late arrivals identified which group they belonged to and moved swiftly to join them, relaxing infinitesimally as they merged with them and then peering with haughty condescension at those arriving even later.

Not sure why he was even there, Bodie didn't join any of the groups and those that saw him didn't feel inclined to approach him. Alone, he sat through the memorial service. His view of the polished coffin with its single glorious wreath was suddenly blocked out as the mourners, family, friends and an odd mixture of police and CI5 rose to their feet as the ceremony ended.

The first to arrive at the small church, Bodie was the last to leave. Breathing in the damp air, he shook off the melancholy claustrophobia that churches always gave him. Not in the least bit religious, such places still managed to make him feel small, insignificant and frighteningly vulnerable. He was never comfortable in a church and could rarely be persuaded to pass through its door but, this time, for Ray, he'd done it.

The coffin had been carried to a spot near the outer boundary of the cemetery and the mourners were gathered around it to watch as it was lowered, slowly, into place.

The family were the first to leave, closely followed by the rest. He listened to the subdued chatter, the banging and slamming of car doors and the revving of engines. Eventually he was alone; the vicar seeing him standing there and assuming he wanted to be left to say his own solitary farewell, returned to his church. Bodie waited until the gravediggers had completed their job and covered the grave before approaching the spot.

It started to rain again, heavier than before. Already the ink on the condolence tags attached to bouquets and wreaths was beginning to smudge and run. Looking at the tributes, Bodie suddenly doubted the wisdom of being there: his motives were, to say the least, suspect and eventually he was forced to admit them to himself. At first he'd tried to tell himself that he was there for Ray. He wouldn't do this for anyone else but, as his partner and...best friend he knew that Ray would have expected him to be there.

His conscience wouldn't believe the lie and he was obliged to face the real reason.

Quite simply he had come to make sure she was dead--really dead. He'd come to her funeral for his own sake to make sure that she was finally out of Ray's life. At last, at long last he admitted the depth of his jealousy. He would never have let her win, he wouldn't have let them continue the farcical engagement to its conclusion: he would--Bodie knew--have got rid of her. One way or another.

Charles Holly, pathetic and insane, had simply beaten him to it.

Accidentally, brutally and permanently, Charles Holly had achieved what Bodie hadn't even known he intended doing. He wouldn't have killed her, though--but his method would have been no less subtle or brutal.

A burst of anger burned through him as he realised that even now Ann might still win. A ghost might prove harder to get rid of; a fond memory can remain faultless, perfect and beautiful forever--only life had the misfortune to sour.

Dead, Ann Holly might well prove unbeatable.

---

Quietly slipping into the ward, Bodie crossed to the bed in which his partner lay, still unconscious and still connected to all the different monitors, drips and medical paraphernalia. Settling himself into the chair alongside the bed, Bodie found himself checking over the sleeper for any changes that had taken place since he left only ten hours ago--ordered home to eat and sleep or risk being barred from the ward.

There didn't seem to be quite so many things attached to or stuck into Doyle's body. The respirator which had been placed in readiness beside his bed had gone, the threatening pneumonia succumbing to the influx of antibiotics into his bloodstream. The stark whiteness of the surgical cap covering his head and the plaster cast encasing his right arm from knuckle to elbow made the colourless face appear almost translucent. His breathing sounded easier, that awful rasping replaced by the normal, regular respiration of a sleeper.

Without warning, Doyle stirred, he moved slightly and made a small sound in his throat. Beneath pale eyelids, Bodie could see the rapid eye movement of the dreamer. Doyle's face twisted and the moaned again but through pain or distress; Bodie couldn't tell. Stretching out, he took Doyle's left hand, intending only to reassure him but Doyle's agitation increased and his voice, husky and cracking, grew louder, attracting the attention of the medical staff who rushed over.

"Talk to him, Mr Bodie," the doctor urged the worried agent. "He's beginning to regain consciousness, talk to him, let him know he's safe."

With the doctor, three nurses and all the electronic devices attached to Doyle suddenly making different noises, Bodie found himself too uneasy to sound very reassuring.

"Ray," he said hesitantly, and then again a little stronger. "Ray, come on mate, wake up...can't lie around here all day...Ray. Wake up, Ray..."

As suddenly as he had started, Doyle became still, only the rapid movements under the closed lids betraying whatever awareness he had.

"Keep talking," the doctor ordered. "Don't let him slip back..."

"Ray...Ray, mate, time to get up, sunshine... Can you hear me? Ray? Open your eyes, sunshine...Ray? Please Ray?" Frightened that somehow he was still going to lose him, Bodie forgot about the others' presence and kept up a monologue, asking, imploring and then nagging at him to please wake up. He took hold of the hand that had been snatched away as he spoke. At first, the hand, like Doyle's whole body, was stiff and unyielding, but, eventually, he gave in to the comforting, soft caresses and relaxed, his fingers curling at first tentatively, but then more decisively around Bodie's, finally holding on so firmly Bodie was unable to move his fingers or withdraw his hand from Doyle's grip.

How long he kept talking he didn't know but eventually the doctor put a hand on his shoulder and told him he could stop.

"He didn't wake up," Bodie said, worried. "Shouldn't he have woken up by now?"

"He is still in a coma--although not as deeply as before," the doctor told him as he finished checking his patient's vital signs. "The surgery on his skull to relieve the concussion was a success and he came through the operation well; we've managed to prevent pneumonia from developing any more and his throat is healing well. He's going to be fine, Mr Bodie," Doctor Kline said reassuringly. "This time next week he'll be up and about--if perhaps feeling a little fragile," he added honestly. "In two weeks' time at the very worst he will have a broken arm and--"

"But you've been expecting him to wake up since Sunday!" Bodie interrupted. "It's Tuesday and he's still out--what's wrong with him?"

"It's not always possible to predict exactly when a patient will wake up--"

"You've been saying that since Sunday--"

"Mr Bodie please! Lower your voice!" The doctor glanced round the room. "Nurse," he called out. "Stay here with Mr Doyle, call me as soon as the EEG registers any increased activity. Mr Bodie, would you please come through into the office."

Not waiting to check that Bodie would follow, the doctor detached the sheets of paper-printout from the EEG and left the bedside, turning only when he reached the glassed-off area that made up the I.C.U. office. "Mr Bodie?"

With a sign, Bodie extricated his fingers from Doyle's sleep-heavy hand and followed.

In the small room the doctor and another man were looking over the scroll just removed from the EEG; a pile of similar sheets littered the desk.

"Well..." the second man said eventually. "It looks more encouraging...an improvement certainly...yes, definitely," he said.

Kline introduced the two men. "This is Mr Bodie, Ray Doyle's partner. Doctor Carson has been running the EEG on Mr Doyle."

"You were present when this reading was taken just now," Carson asked urgently.

"When he almost woke up--or seemed like he was going to, yes," Bodie said. "I'd been with him about ten minutes before he began...twitching."

"Twitching--explain?" the doctor ordered brusquely.

"Well, he was quiet at first...breathing normally and then, all of a sudden he...he jumped, he moaned very quietly and I noticed and I noticed his eyes were moving very fast under his lids--"

"Did he open his eyes at all?"

"No."

"Just before he jumped, what was happening in the ward?"

"Nothing..." Bodie said slowly but then thought again. "Wait...just before...you were talking at the far end with some of the nurses and someone must have cracked a joke--everyone started laughing--up until then it had been very quiet in there," Bodie told Kline.

"Then what happened?" asked Carson. "Did something else happen?" He was looking at the peaks in the reading. "About a minute or so after the initial jump to awareness?"

"Well, nothing...nothing that I remember," said Bodie, puzzled.

"There's a second jump here, a minute or so after the first one, did you notice that?"

"I'm not too sure...the first jump gave me a surprise--he'd been so still...he made a noise, a sort of moan... I didn't know if he was hurting or what--his face looked scared...he looked frightened. "I touched his hand...I tried to hold it but he snatched it away--"

"Perhaps he was just agitated?"

"No," Bodie said. "He snatched it away. It was as if he didn't want to be touched..." Bodie ended lamely, remembering too late that Doyle never liked being touched unless he was wide awake.

"And then?" asked Carson.

"Doctor Kline told me to talk to him and I did. I don't know how long for."

"Hmm, interesting," Carson murmured as he pored over the scroll. "Interesting," he repeated. "Strange...but still, I suppose--"

"What?" Bodie asked anxiously. "What's wrong?" I thought you said he was recovering, that he's going to be okay?"

"Physically he is," Kline agreed. "But--"

"Mentally?" Bodie asked. "You said the head injury wasn't serious!"

"Initially I thought not, however--"

"I agree with Doctor Kline's initial prognosis," Carson interrupted. "I am sure the problem is not physical, merely psychological."

"What does that mean?" Bodie asked fearfully.

"Well," Doctor Carson started, then paused and looked at Kline for permission to continue. "This is the fourth time Mr Doyle has begun to surface--to wake up, you might say. But, each time he has slipped back into this coma state. His condition, his physical condition, is improving all the time but he remains in a state of deep unconsciousness. He responds, quite violently, to touch and to sounds. Usually once patient reaches this level of awareness they do wake up--"

"But Ray hasn't," Bodie said bleakly.

"Indeed," Carson agreed. "Each time, instead of opening his eyes and waking up he falls back to the deeper levels of consciousness."

"You're making it sound like he's choosing to remain in the coma," Bodie said angrily.

"I suspect that he is--now wait a moment," Carson said, forestalling Bodie. "Let me explain further. I suspect quite strongly that for some reason he is choosing to remain unconscious."

"Why would he do that?"

"Any number of reasons," Carson said quietly. "Shock in itself can have a devastating effect on a person. The trauma of his attack, the shock of his injuries all piled on top of the nature and duration of his ordeal in the hidey-hole--"

"Yes, but...he's free now. He's recovering--"

"Does Mr Doyle know that?" Carson asked softly. "I suspect not."

"He might think he's still trapped in here?" Bodie said, aghast.

"I do," Carson agreed. "I am also concerned about his condition when he was admitted to this hospital. His injuries, though obviously painful, were not that serious. The concussion and damaged throat were aggravated by the lack of medical care and compounded by dehydration but, even so, they didn't warrant the depth of coma he was in."

"He had been kept prisoner--virtually buried alive," Carson went on. "I think he retreated into himself in an attempt to escape the prison he was faced with. Being trapped, injured and helpless in that manner would be enough to cause any normal person to react so."

Any normal person. The doctors' words echoed mockingly around inside Bodie's head. To speak up now could effectively ruin Doyle, but to keep quiet could do him even more harm in the long run. That the information would remain confidential was, Bodie knew, a false hope. They would have to tell Cowley--and Ross.

"Supposing..." Bodie cleared his throat and began again. Ashamed of what he was doing to Doyle, he didn't notice that Cowley and Day had appeared behind him in the doorway. "What you said about any normal person being affected by something like that. What if the person already suffered...suffered from claustrophobia."

"Claustrophobia!" Carson said in surprise. "It wouldn't bear...surely you don't mean--"

"If someone with claustrophobia found themselves trapped like that what would you expect to happen to them?" Bodie asked, already half dreading the answer.

"Doyle, you mean?" Carson asked. "Well...it would certainly explain a few things--"

"But what has it done to him?" Bodie asked urgently.

"Let me get this right," Carson said firmly. "Doyle suffers from a mild form of claustrophobia?"

Bodie hesitated. "Not...not exactly that mild," he admitted.

"I see. How badly?"

A sound distracted Bodie and he spun round to see Cowley and Day. Neither man said a word but Bodie knew that they had heard everything. Turning his back on them he spoke to the doctor. "I'm no expert and I've never come across it before but I don't think it's classic claustrophobia as I've always understood it. Doyle's okay in small rooms or in lifts. I've never noticed him worrying whether the door is open or shut...but...sometimes. Well, it's two things really. Sometimes, if it's dark--pitch-black dark with no light at all, well, then if the room is...shut in, if he can't get out...he panics--well I've never seen him really panic but...I get the feeling that if he ever found he really couldn't get out of somewhere he would...he might panic."

"How does he cope with this fear in everyday life?"

"Doesn't seem to bother him that much," Bodie answered. "As far as I can tell it only really bothers him when the two come at the same time--a confined space and darkness--living in a city, working as we do, in two years we've not had to work in a situation like that. In bed at night, at his place he always leaves the landing light on, at my place there's a street lamp almost right outside the window--it never gets that dark."

"He won't sleep in total darkness?" Carson asked.

"Can't or won't," Bodie said. "I think can't."

"Have you ever removed the light source while he was sleeping?" Carson asked intuitively.

"Yes," admitted Bodie reluctantly.

"And?" the doctor prompted.

"He became...disturbed."

"You are sure he was asleep at the time?" Bodie nodded. "What happened?"

"I opened the curtains again and let the streetlight in. He calmed down, he woke up but I don't think he knew what woke him."

"Have you witnessed any other reaction of this fear?" Carson pushed--realising as Cowley did, that it was only because of his concern for his partner that Bodie was talking about it at all; he suspected that once Doyle's recovery was assured he would clam up and refuse to give any more information.

"Yes," Bodie grated out and bit by bit related the incident when they were trapped in the lift.

"And the other man," Carson asked. "He was unaware of the condition Doyle was in?"

"No--he made some comment after a while, asked if Ray was asleep or something."

"And after that, what happened?"

"Ray joined the conversation--he sounded a bit...strained, but I don't think Lake noticed."

"So there was no panic attack once he released the grip he had on your arm?"

"No."

"And later, afterwards?"

"Afterwards...nothing." Bodie turned then to face Cowley before continuing bitterly. "Life got a bit hectic workwise then and it was days before the subject was even mentioned."

"So you have discussed it with him then?"

"Not in any detail, he couldn't really explain it himself...didn't seem to understand it--he was more concerned to know whether I would report it to Ross--and Cowley, of course."

"And," Cowley interrupted, "as you have said nothing to me, nor I suspect to Dr Ross, you clearly decided against reporting it."

"That's right," Bodie said grimly. "I decided it wasn't worth the bother--it's not been a problem and I believe that Ray would cope with a bad situation if he had to, he's bloody good at his job and training would overrule any fear if he might have--"

"And if his training didn't help it would be your life on the line," Cowley guessed astutely.

"More than likely," Bodie agreed.

"That's not good enough, Bodie, and you know it--you should have passed this information on to Dr Ross--"

"Really, gentlemen," Dr Kline butted in hurriedly. "You can discuss CI5 policy another time; right now my priority is with my patient!" Sharply reminding everyone why they were there, the doctor, for the moment at least, closed the discussion on Doyle's claustrophobia.

Leaving Cowley to discuss whatever it was he came to see the doctor about in the first place, Bodie returned to Doyle's bedside. This time he spoke softly to Doyle for several minutes before tentatively touching the lax fingers. Almost at once his hand was taken into a steely grip, Ray murmured something and curled slightly to his side facing where Bodie was sitting.

Using his free hand to ease the kinks caused in the tubes in Doyle's arm and nose, Bodie smoothed the pillow and brushed back one chunky, wayward curl that had escaped from the surgical cap. Poor Ray, he thought, he'd have a large bald spot to cover until the operation site healed over.

"Bodie?"

Surprised because he'd not heard the man's approach, Bodie turned to see Day standing beside him.

"No, stay where you are," Day said softly. "Don't disturb him--I just wanted to have a word with you..."

Having decided long ago that he didn't particularly care what Day thought or said, Bodie turned back to his partner.

"I thought you might like to..." Day hesitantly started. "I thought you'd like to be able to tell Ray something from me when he comes round." Day waited for Bodie to comment and when the silence only stretched on he began again. "Holly's house--and the London flat, the one opposite Ann's place, gave us a lot of information--it confirmed one or two things we weren't sure of. Holly was mad; mad as a hatter but bloody clever: he managed to fool everyone. He seemed to be able to control things just enough that they didn't get out of hand. He kept a diary...thing's a bloody mine of information. Diaries, lists, telephone numbers, addresses--he wrote everything down, all his schemes...you'll have to see them sometime--every page is a month's work in itself for the drug squad and customs men." Day shook his head in reluctant admiration for the madman that had run rings around the drug squad for nearly a decade. "He kept a diary on his daughter, too. Photographs, school books, pieces of her clothing. I spoke to Mrs Harrison about him--seems he's always been obsessed with Ann every since his first breakdown; tried to kidnap her when she was a baby, lots of ugly court appearances over custody when the divorce came through, but then he seemed to drop out of the picture. Mrs Harrison thought he'd given up, forgotten about them even, but he hadn't. He just began watching her from a distance. The London flat is packed with photos of her, he followed her all over the world by the look of things. Photos are all dated, catalogued and filed. There's a whole drawer of shots of her with various men, Doyle too," Day said bitterly. "He's even mentioned in the diaries. I read the weeks where he was arrested and framed--Holly did set it up although framing Doyle wasn't what he'd intended at all!"

Something in Day's voice made Bodie look up. "Well?" he asked.

"Murder was more like it," Day said. "Remember Weston?" Bodie nodded. "Seems he did have a good reason to remember Detective Constable Doyle--he'd been paid to kill him. He was a mechanic at the station Doyle was working from. Doyle was driving a car which, because he was going undercover, he returned to the pool. Weston fixed the brakes but it was Inspector Taylor and not Doyle who drove the car out of the station that night. Doyle's alibi went bang same time Taylor was killed. Holly only had to alter a few minor details and Doyle was well and truly banged to rights!"

"Just like that!" Bodie was appalled that Doyle's downfall had been so easily arranged.

"Yeah," Day said, sighing heavily. "Just like that."

Swearing under his breath, Bodie raged quietly, only Doyle's warm grip preventing him from hitting something--preferably Day.

"Yeah," Day said quietly. "I'll be off--do you need a lift anywhere?" he offered.

"I'm staying here," Bodie said without looking round. Concentrating only on his partner, it was some time before he realised that Day still hadn't left and was hovering around the foot of the bed. "You forget something?" he asked sourly.

Day jumped, startled by the sudden question and the venomous look flashed his way. "What? Oh... Yes, well, not really--guess it can wait." He fidgeted and flushed pink, clearly discomfited.

"If you've bloody well got something to say--say it!" Bodie snapped. "You've not been shy about speaking your mind in the past."

"I had my reasons, Bodie," Day retorted, stung but refusing to let the other man make him feel any more guilty. "I'm as pleased as you are that Doyle's been cleared of all suspicion but I was right in my belief that he was mixed up with the racket in some way--"

"It's a pity your 'investigations'," Bodie managed to make the word sound almost obscene, "didn't show up Holly's insanity before Ann was murdered and Ray damn near strangled!"

"Sooner or later it would have come to light," Day defended, knowing he'd not failed in his work. "Maybe their engagement was the final straw that pushed Holly over the edge. He was slowly losing his grip on reality but Doyle coming back like he did into Ann's life was more than he could take. The shrink reckons that the bomb in the car was meant for Doyle. Holly thought it was him in the car when he detonated the bomb. When he found out he'd killed his daughter he just went berserk--I don't suppose Ray knew what hit him..."

"No, I don't suppose he did," Bodie agreed sarcastically, turning away from him and hoping he would have the sense to take the hint and leave.

The rest of the morning passed slowly. The nursing staff checking on Doyle's condition at regular intervals took little notice of Bodie as he sat quietly, unselfconsciously holding onto the patient's hand. Once, fingers hot and cramping, Bodie tried to withdraw them but Doyle's grip had tightened, keeping him there.

---

...The silence as he climbed towards the light was as terrifying as the dark but he felt compelled to keep climbing. As he got closer and closer his fear, impossibly, doubled. Were they still there? Would they force him back or, worse still, would no-one be there?

Undecided, he hovered; what was worse, the suffocating, heavy darkness or the bright, cold isolation of the light?

He turned back into the warm darkness but found he couldn't reach his sanctuary any more. Scared and unwilling, he moved upwards towards the light. He wanted the dark! He fought his rise upwards, struggling against the inevitable. He could hear noises--growing louder and louder and then he could feel hands on him; he tried to pull away and get back to his sanctuary but he couldn't escape them. The voices became clearer and he could hear his own name being called. One voice, closer than other others, troubled him, eh recognised the gruff tones and struggled to identify the speaker.

"Come on, Ray," the voice urged. "Please Ray...come on... Come on, Ray."

Bodie? It was Bodie; but something was wrong...whatever could be wrong, Doyle wondered. Everything was so confused and muddled and he couldn't think straight, couldn't imagine what was causing Bodie to sound so anxious.

"Ray!"

No, Doyle realised, frightened; Bodie sounded frightened. What was wrong, had the job gone wrong? Flashes of memory sparked images in his mind and he saw the dark corridor and his friend's angry face as he shouted at him. "I'll do what I'm trained to do and I'll protect him to the best of my ability. And, if you don't feel the same way you can pack up and get out now, right now!" Was Bodie angry with him? Then he was running, guns were booming everywhere, deafening him, and he was after someone...running...running...the man was just ahead of him...in slow motion Doyle watched as the man stopped running, turned and raised his gun...

---

"Ray? Ray?" Bodie cried urgently as Doyle stopped threshing about and became frighteningly still. "Ray?"

Doyle's eyes suddenly snapped open; wide, frightened and unfocussed. Reaching out, Bodie stroked the side of his face with gentle fingers and slowly the tension and fear seemed to drain away and heavy eyelids drooped and closed.

"Ray?" Bodie said softly. "Can you hear me, Ray, are you awake? Come on Ray, please...say something," he pleaded.

Slowly Doyle's eyes opened again and he turned towards him. Bodie smiled, the grin turning into a huge beam when a weak smile tugged at Doyle's lips in response.

"Hello, sunshine," Bodie choked past a large lump in his throat. "Decided to wake up at last, have you?"

Doyle looked at him with huge, sleepy eyes. "Mmmm," he mumbled. "Mmmnn what's 'appenin'? Wha's wrong?"

"What's wrong he asks!" Bodie said in amazement. "You lie there like a corpse for nearly a week and then wake up and ask what's wrong!"

Confused, but warm and comfortable, Doyle could see that Bodie was all right after all and he felt too tired to worry about it any more. Bodie was okay so everything was all right.

"Hey," Bodie tapped Doyle's cheek lightly. "Don't go back to sleep, mate."

"'m tired..." Doyle mumbled.

"Ray?"

"'m tired, Bodie..." Ray grumbled as he tried to go back to sleep. "You're all right...so everything's okay... 'm tired..." He finally realised where he was, the noises and the smell filtering through to his brain; hospital. Somehow he wasn't surprised. "He got...me, didn't he," Doyle whispered.

"He certainly did, sunshine," Bodie agreed.

"Must 'ave been...blind...point blank...poor shot...'

"Shot?" Bodie said, puzzled. "Ray?" But there was no answer as Doyle had finally managed to drop off--into a normal shallow sleep, the doctor hurried to inform him.

Doyle drifted in and out of consciousness for the rest of the afternoon before slipping into a sleep the doctors said would last most of the night. Bodie went home to get some sleep himself but he was still not happy with Doyle's condition. His partner had seemed totally unconcerned at finding himself in hospital and seemed to think he had been shot. It had taken a few mumbled comments about Parsali and the conference before the awful truth dawned on Bodie. If Doyle thought he had been injured on the job it would mean he had forgotten about going away with Ann...

Bodie hoped he would remember without having to be told.

After a few hours of restless sleep, Bodie, still tired and unrefreshed, returned to the hospital. He found Ray, this time in a small side ward and was cheered by the proof that the worst was over and intensive care was no longer necessary. The door creaked loudly as he went in and Ray's eyes opened slowly.

"Mornin'" he said in a husky voice. "Not 'here to shove...food down me throat, are you?"

"What?" Bodie stopped dead.

"Every time I...open my eyes they leap...out of the woodwork...and say...eat this...drink that, swallow...this..." he moaned.

"You're feeling better," Bodie said cheerfully. "I can tell."

"If it's not...food and drink...it's bleedin' needles..."

"Your voice sounds awful," Bodie said with concern. "You sure you should be talking?"

"Yeah," Doyle croaked. "'s long as I don't...overdo it."

"Make sure you don't," Bodie ordered. "Anyway, how are you feeling this morning--apart from a sore throat?"

"Fuckin' awful...if you...must know," Doyle said with a cheeky grin. "What the hell 'appened to...me. Feel like...I've been 'it by a steamroller!"

"What have the doctors said?" asked Bodie, unsure how much Doyle knew.

"The doctors?" Doyle pulled a face. "Oh...mmm...that's better...oh, very good...coming along...nicely," he mimicked. "Everytime I ask a...question they...the tell me to rest and...get well."

"Oh," said Bodie, his heart sinking.

"Don't you...bloody start!" Doyle rasped. "What...'appened?"

Bodie drew the small armchair up to the bedside. "What do you remember?" he asked.

Bit by bit, Doyle related all he remembered of his part in Parsali's conference. Keeping his face neutral, Bodie listened without letting on his dismay. Doyle's voice tailed off as he came to the point where he was chasing the would-be assassin across the lawns.

"...Running like blazes...then he stopped and...he stopped and turned to face...me. I remember his turning and looking at me." Doyle frowned as he struggled to remember. "His gun was...was in his hand...he lifted it and, and, nothing! I can't remember anything after that--it's just a blank; what happened? Did he get away, did I blow it?" he asked anxiously.

"No," Bodie reassured him, careful to keep the extent of his amnesia from him. You got him, we got both of them and Parsali got away safely--"

The door creaked loudly again and the doctor, followed by a couple of nurses, came into the room and Bodie found himself being ushered out by the Ward Sister who made it perfectly clear that visiting time didn't start for another four and a half hours.

Finding himself at a loose end, Bodie wandered into headquarters; he wasn't sure whether or not he was on suspension or annual leave but he had an idea that Cowley would soon let him know. He wasn't wrong.

"Brawling, Bodie," Cowley informed him icily, "is not the sort of behaviour I expect from my men. You were present as an observer at Doyle's flat because I wanted you to be a witness to what would or would not be found there. It is not unusual for one half of a team to be present in such circumstances and I had thought you were professional enough not to have been drawn into such petty tomfoolery! Do you really think those men enjoyed prying and poling into one of their colleagues' flats?"

Bodie didn't answer; he stood, back straight, eyes front before Cowley's desk. "Well, man?" Cowley demanded a response.

"Sir?" Bodie enquired with almost insolent politeness.

"I will not tolerate brawling, Bodie," Cowley said firmly. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie snapped back.

Cowley stared hard at Bodie for several minutes as if considering forms of punishment and Bodie waited patiently. But, instead of another lecture Cowley suddenly changed direction, giving Bodie no warning and no time to prepare a defence.

"Doyle's claustrophobia," Cowley said. "You should have reported it immediately you were aware of it. By not doing so you jeopardised your own life and the lives of others. It would also have been in 4.5's best interests that you alerted the department to the problem."

Bodie managed not to flinch from the scathing voice. Knowing Cowley as he did, he should perhaps have expected this.

"Maybe it was wrong not to report it but at the time I didn't think so. Okay, he's got a problem but it's his problem. He's never let it interfere with the job. Doyle's convinced that he could handle a situation and so am I, he's been well trained."

"An irrational fear is not predictable, Bodie. How can either of you know for sure what would happen if something triggered it off."

"You can't chuck him out simply because he's claustrophobic--it's a problem--yes, I agree--but he copes with it. If he hadn't taken so long to regain consciousness no-one would even know about it--that's how big a problem it is!" Bodie said tightly, barely holding onto his temper.

"Perhaps," Cowley said thoughtfully; he found Bodie's defence of his partner very interesting. Over the last months he had been watching the pair of them with increasing anxiety. Doyle's commitment to CI5 and to his partner had flourished even though his personal life had seemed erratic and unsettled, but meanwhile, Bodie's deepening commitment had suddenly levelled out and Cowley thought he had seen evidence he was about to take off leaving Doyle, CI5 and even England far behind him. Something had unsettled Bodie, confused him even, Cowley thought. "Perhaps when he finds out all that has been going on he might wish to terminate his employment with the department anyway," he said, allowing the impression that he would accept Doyle's resignation to filter through.

"And move on to what?" Bodie asked furiously. "Holly's not left him much to go back to!"

"A fresh start," Cowley suggested.

"Where? He won't resign--if you want him out you'll have to sack him--and if he goes so will I!"

"Considering your behaviour recently that could be arranged!"

Both men stared hard at each other, neither prepared to be the one to give way. But, surprisingly, Cowley looked down, relaxed into his chair and waived a hand towards the easy chair beside his desk.

"Oh, sit down, man," Cowley sighed. "You've been to the hospital this morning--how is he?" he asked as he poured them each a drink.

"Recovering. Slowly," Bodie said, taking the drink. "He's still a bit confused, seems to think he was injured somehow during the Parsali business."

"I see. And what do the doctors say?"

"Not much. His memory may or may not return; he could remember everything or just bits and pieces. Right now they've said it's best not to tell him the truth, it'll be best if he's given the chance to remember for himself."

"So he is unaware of Miss Holly's death?"

"So far, yes. He hasn't even mentioned her," Bodie replied. "But since he's still drugged up to his eyeballs that's hardly surprising. He'll soon start asking questions and then he'll start wondering why we're being so evasive," he said bitterly. "He'll know the truth soon enough."

"I daresay he will," Cowley agreed. Mellowed slightly by the whiskey and with the crackling tension between them less now, Cowley broached the subject of Doyle's claustrophobia again.

"And in your opinion it doesn't affect 4.5's performance," he ended.

"It hasn't--so far. I can't say it never will; as you said, it's an irrational fear and by definition unpredictable, but people can learn to control their fears."

"With help," Cowley agreed. "I've already spoken to Dr Ross. She has suggested that Doyle will most probably need professional help to recover from all that has happened. It would have been a traumatic experience for a person who didn't particularly have a phobia about being confined in the dark."

"Will he get help?" Bodie asked.

"We can provide it, of course. It will be offered to him. If he wants to remain on the squad it's essential that he co-operates to the full."

"Not Ross," Bodie said, knowing how much his partner disliked the woman.

"No, this is out of her field," Cowley agreed, only barely preventing a grin from appearing on his face. He knew how the men felt about her and he even agreed with them--although the woman was useful to him on occasions. "I'll get her to organise everything but she won't be directly involved," he assured. "In the meantime," he looked at Bodie and chose his words carefully, "you are still on suspension following your behaviour the other day. I don't want to see you back here until Monday morning."

"Yes, sir," Bodie said, relieved to have got off so lightly. That meant he could spend the next three days with Ray at the hospital.

---

Once Bodie had left the office Cowley returned to his desk and began to plough through the paperwork waiting there. But his attention kept wandering and shortly he gave up, closing the files and locking them away.

Bodie and Doyle, he thought. It had started as an experiment two years ago: against the advice of several people who all predicted disaster but it had been a success--if only a limited one. Last year he had thought it a total success, a few weeks ago less so and then he had nearly lost both of them; Doyle to a wife and family commitments and Bodie--to only Bodie knew where.

Cowley knew he had relied on Doyle's vulnerability to bring out his partner's protective instincts and to give Bodie a reason to stay in CI5 where hopefully, he would increase his own commitment to the department. But something had gone wrong. Somewhere along the way the Grand Plan had gone awry.

With nowhere else to turn Doyle had remained with the department and thrown himself into his work. Having nothing to distract him, his involvement had been a consuming one which had wavered only slightly when the engagement and impending nuptials had been announced.

Bodie's commitment had been strong when Doyle's was and had wavered at the same time. If Doyle did resign Cowley knew he would lose Bodie too--but then without Doyle holding him down, Bodie would have left two years ago.

Ruefully, Cowley acknowledged the flaw in his plan. Two years ago Bodie's loyalty had been to Cowley first and the department second. It was fast becoming obvious that Cowley and the department had been relegated to second and third places with Doyle way ahead of both of them.

Cowley sighed tiredly. It wasn't exactly what he'd set out to achieve but it was close--and in time maybe Doyle's conscience and commitment might rub off onto his partner.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY

Looking up from his book, Bodie smiled as he saw the eyes that were blinking sleepily at him. "Decided to wake up, have you," he teased.

Doyle returned the smile and then stretched and snuffled until he was really awake. "Mmmmn...nothing else to do," he said. "Sleep, eat, eat, sleep...they won't let me do anything else. Good book, is it?"

"Passable--better than watching you snore." The last few days Doyle had done little but sleep and regain his strength. The bruising around his neck had faded to a smudgy yellow that was only obvious now in a good light, the other visible signs of his ordeal being the half-cast on his arm and a bald patch on the side of his head that already was no longer such a startling pinkness; a week's growth and an abundance of surrounding hair almost covering it.

"Are you going to take me out to The Beeches?" Doyle asked.

"Yes, they're expecting you Monday morning. I'll bring a bag of clothes and some things from home for you to take."

"What sort of place is it?" Doyle asked casually as he fidgeted with pillows and bed covers.

"I've never been there as a patient, only as a visitor--went and saw John Henry when he was up there for a while recovering from a bad job. Seemed a nice enough place; it's just a hospital that's reserved specially for the services. We use it, so do MI5, MI6 and Special Services. It's well protected and used to dealing with security personnel."

It was in fact a beautiful building in acres of wooded, secluded countryside with a security network equalled only by Buckingham Palace. It was a hospital, a convalescent home, a hospice and, in a few cases, even a prison of sorts.

"Can't see why I've got to go there," Doyle grumbled. "I could stay with you."

"I go back to work Monday," Bodie reminded him.

"I could stay with Ann."

Bodie gave a nervous twitch at that. It was the first time Doyle had mentioned her.

"I'd 'ave thought she would have come to see me," Doyle said nonchalantly. "Has she been in touch, have you spoken to her?"

"No," Bodie replied, his heart sinking. "There's a 'D' notice on the whole Parsali business, besides, you don't want to worry her while you're still feeling so rough. Leave it a few more days until you're feeling better before trying to contact her."

"Okay," Doyle agreed immediately. "You're right, she'd only start moaning about the job again."

Bodie noticed Doyle frown and saw the worried look appear in his eyes. "What's up?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Up? Nothing...I just... Oh hell! I don't know... I just thought that there was something I should... You're right. I won't call her until I feel better." Shrugging the worrying feeling aside Doyle changed the subject.

---

By Sunday Doyle felt well enough to leave his bed and get dressed, but it wasn't until he discovered how exhausting those simple tasks were that he began to understand why everyone was treating him as if he were a fragile invalid--he was a fragile invalid!

Perspiration ran down his face and his shirt clung damply to his body as he sat on the chair in the shower room, resting before summoning the necessary energy to walk back to his own room at the far end of the hospital corridor.

En-route to his room he made a strategic detour to the deserted day room and collapsed into one of the large armchairs rather than run the risk of falling at the feet of the nurses. Shaking and dizzy, he leant back onto the cool vinyl and closed his eyes; he felt terrible, he decided, feeling very sorry for himself. His head throbbed, his neck and shoulders ached constantly and his broken wrist was bloody painful. He should, he admitted ruefully, have taken the painkilling medication offered earlier but, trying to convince the doctors--and of course, Bodie--that he was feeling so much better, he'd refused. Not that his sacrifice had been rewarded, they were still bent on sending him to The Beeches.

A frown appeared on Doyle's face as he strained to recall what he'd heard about the place. A private convalescent home for the likes of us, Bodie had described it. Doyle wasn't too sure. During his two years in CI5 he'd heard the place mentioned a few times--no one seemed to want to go there, preferring instead to recover their strength and health elsewhere. There was a reason why they wanted to send him there he didn't know about, Doyle thought to himself. Even Bodie, who normally hated even the thought of hospitals and convalescence homes, seemed keen to get him there.

Out of the way, a small voice told him.

Feeling slightly better after his rest, Doyle made his way back to his room where he collapsed with such obvious relief that the nurse repeated her offer of some medication. Sheepishly realising he was fooling no one, Doyle gave in and swallowed the tablets. As the pills took effect, the swimming not-quite-awake-but-not-quite-asleep feeling rolled over him. He dozed, eyes shut but all other senses operating normally, letting him know what was happening outside; the bang and clatter of the breakfast trolley returning to the kitchen, the harsh ring of the telephone at the nurses' station and subdued conversation. He heard everything from his safe, drug-induced cocoon. He listened, and he thought. Why did they want to send him to The Beeches?

The question nagged at him over the next few days. He had a bad feeling about it and knew that something was wrong, very wrong. Bodie knew something, Doyle decided eventually. When he'd made his report he'd seen the way Bodie had stopped taking notes; seen the carefully blank expression his partner had adopted.

"What happened next, Ray?" Bodie had asked in a very level voice--and Doyle had been unable to remember. It was maddening, but the last memory he had was of his quarry turning to face him and pointing the gun at him. Bodie hadn't seemed concerned that he'd clearly forgotten what happened next, only relieved--which only served to make Doyle even more nervous.

Think, man, think, Doyle berated himself, knowing that somehow it was desperately important that he did remember. Had he done something wrong, he wondered. He was sure he'd fired at the man...but if he had fired what had happened to him? Who had attacked him? Who? How? When? In ever-decreasing circles his mind raced around the questions without finding any answers, his mind only giving in under the constant, regular influx of tranquillisers and sedatives.

---

Bodie walked towards Doyle's room with little joy in his heart, knowing that as soon as his partner arrived at The Beeches he would have to be told about Ann's death. It wasn't a task he was looking forward to and, over the past few days as Doyle recovered he'd hoped that the memory would come back but, so far it was clear that his partner still believed he'd been injured while protecting Parsali.

Curiously though, Doyle had asked very few questions. Apart from once asking why Ann had not visited him, Doyle hadn't mentioned her again. Bodie thought that he had accepted the 'D' notice story rather quickly--is if perhaps on some subconscious level he really didn't want to know the truth.

Opening the door to Doyle's room, he was greeted with the sight of his partner standing in front of a mirror with a very worried look on his face. Seeing his friend enter the room, Doyle smiled. "Come to spring me, have you?"

"Yes, hurry up--got the bedsheets hanging out of the window down the corridor and a fast car waiting downstairs," Bodie joked, pleased to see Doyle so cheerful.

"Just trying to make something with this mess...must be the first time in my life I've ever been grateful for my hair growing so bloody fast!"

"Nother week and it'll be as long and curly as the rest of this bird's nest," joked Bodie as he tweaked a fat curl with his fingers.

"I'm ready to go as soon as you are," Doyle announced.

"Not so fast, the doctor's coming by to have a word with you about a couple of things--"

"I thought I'd ring Ann before we leave. Is there a call box or phone somewhere I can use?" Stuffing the last of his things into a bag, Doyle didn't notice the look on Bodie's face. "I think I ought to let her know where I am. I won't tell her anything about the hospital--I'll just say it's work, she's used to that."

"Ray--"

"I can't help feeling I've forgotten something," Doyle went on. "Everytime I nearly remember...it goes again. It's bound to have been something important and she's going to moan and bitch about it...but I still think I should ring. Bodie...what's wrong?" Clipping the bag shut, Doyle swung it off the bed. "What is it?" he asked as his partner continued to gape at him. A grim sense of foreboding washed over him. "Bodie...?" he said fearfully.

"Ray...here, give me that and sit yourself down." Bodie took the bag and set it on the floor.

"Bodie?"

"I have something to tell you," he started.

"Something so bad I have to sit down?" Doyle tried to joke.

"Ray--"

"Okay," Doyle interrupted. "You want to talk--just let me make one quick phone call to Ann and then we can talk."

"Ray, no--you can't."

"What do you mean, I can't," Doyle snapped back, irritated and clearly edgy. "I'll phone who I bloody well like when I like!"

"No," Bodie said as he tried to calm him down. "I need to talk to you first."

"Can't it wait?" Doyle snapped and tried to push past him to the open door. Bodie slammed it shut and leant on it.

"No, it can't," he said slowly.

Watching Bodie barring his exit, Dole felt the knot of tension inside him tighten. He didn't want to hear what Bodie had to say. He couldn't work out exactly what was wrong but nothing had felt right for days now. Obviously something terrible had happened and he knew now that it concerned him. What on earth had he done? The sweat was prickling along his back, soaking his clean shirt and he was aware of his quickening pulse. Whatever it was he knew he didn't want to hear it.

"Well it'll have to wait, won't it. Shift out of the way, Bodie!" Attack always was the best form of defence and he saw with some satisfaction the realisation in Bodie's blue eyes the knowledge that the patient was in no mood to be humoured. "Get away from the door, Bodie," he ordered. "I'll make my call and then we can have our talk. There's no need to make such a big deal out of it--I just want to talk to Ann, I've remembered that we were supposed to be going away for the weekend," he said, relenting a little. "I've got to let her know why I stood her up--might as well get it over with," he joked weakly.

At the mention of Ann, Doyle noticed his partner's start. It wasn't the first time he'd seen that look in Bodie's eyes when he mentioned her. "Look," he said placatingly. "I know you don't like her and I know you think I'm being stupid wanting to marry her, but--"

"I liked her," Bodie protested.

"Come on, Bodie. You can stop pretending, I know you don't like her--right from the start that much was obvious. Even Ann knows that you resent her in some way--"

"Ray...stop it. Just...come and sit down and shut up for a minute... Please!"

"Bodie?"

"Ray. Please?"

"After I've made my call!"

"She's dead, Ray," he finally blurted out. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. You can't call her, Ray. She's dead. I'm sorry...but she's dead..."

The room became silent and still as Bodie waited for Doyle's reaction. The silence stretched endlessly. As he heard the words a part of Doyle's mind accepted the truth of them. He would have liked to believe he'd misheard or that Bodie was lying but he knew that he would not lie about that. But, even though he knew it was the truth his mind still refused to admit it believed.

Bodie watched the colour drain from Ray's face and he waited, not knowing what to expect. He knew Doyle had heard him and guessed he'd understood but the total lack of response was unnerving.

"It was the day after Parsali left England; you went away with her to that cottage near Eastbourne." Bodie spoke softly. "She was in your car on Saturday morning when...it happened."

"My car," whispered Doyle. "My car? A crash?"

"No. He was trying to kill you," Bodie said quietly.

"Me?"

"Ann borrowed your car and he mistook her for you. He put a bomb in the car. She didn't stand a chance, Ray. It was over in seconds, she probably never knew what happened--"

"In my car?" Doyle repeated. "I was there?"

"No. You'd stayed at the cottage..."

Doyle's eyes were unfocussed, distant and he began to grasp some misty memories of that morning. "I...I went back to bed..." he said as if in a daze. "Ann...she wanted to get some...some shopping. I was...tired...hadn't slept much but...after ringing the doctor we were so relieved...so happy..." Doyle wandered back across the room and slumped down onto the bed, rubbing fingers into his temples. "We were so bloody relieved...knew that everything was going to be okay then. I went to bed...but I couldn't sleep...I remember hearing--" Doyle's face screwed up as if in pain and Bodie crouched down beside him taking hold of one trembling hand to offer support. "Heard a...a car...I thought it was Ann coming home so I opened the door..." Doyle tightened his grip on Bodie's hand. "I thought it was Ann," he repeated desperately. "But it wasn't...it wasn't..."

"Can you remember who it was, Ray. Can you describe him?" Bodie probed gently.

"No...I don't know him...I don't know..."

"Describe him, Ray." Bodie pressed, knowing that he would have to do this sooner or later.

"Big...filled the doorway. Tall...thickset, grey hair and eyes...those eyes. He's mad. I could see he was mad and then...and then... Nothing! I can't remember...Bodie!"

"Sshh, it's okay," Bodie soothed.

"What happened, Bodie? I can't remember what happened."

"What's the next thing that you can remember?" Bodie asked.

Doyle thought furiously. "I'm not sure...I don't know..."

"Do you remember waking up here?"

"Here...yes. I think so...but...I don't know...just dreams I suppose...just dreams..."

"Dreams about what?" asked Bodie anxiously.

"Who was he, Bodie? The man at the door, who was he--and Ann, what happened?"

"Slow down, Ray," Bodie begged.

"I need to know what happened. Tell me what happened. How long have I been here?" Doyle asked suddenly.

"Er...a week today," Bodie answered. "But it took us six days to find you--"

"Find me?"

"Holly had hidden you so well we couldn't find you--"

"Holly?"

"Ann's father. Charles Holly--"

"Her father--I thought he was dead!"

"Unfortunately he wasn't. He died two weeks ago, the day after he murdered Ann and tried to kill you--"

"Two weeks ago!"

"Ray, we didn't know to even start looking--it wasn't until the inquest on Ann that we even knew to look for her father--"

"Inquest?" Totally lost, Doyle was reeling under each new shock.

"We found her father's body four days after the bombing--it took us another two days to find you and then you were unconscious for another four days--"

"She's been dead for two weeks!" Doyle croaked, his voice breaking. "How long were you going to leave it before telling me?"

"Ray, the doctors felt you weren't up to being told--"

"And now I am?" he asked icily.

"You were obviously starting to remember--we were worried that something might trigger the memories off--"

"So you drew the short straw!" Doyle snapped out. "You should be pleased that she's dead--"

"Ray!"

"She liked you about as much as you liked her," Doyle informed him. "So don't worry too much--forget the mock sympathy. She's dead. That's it, isn't it. Over-and-out. The wedding was off anyway," he quipped lightly. "She said once that I ought to marry you, did you know that? She thought we were made for each other, she even had this ridiculous notion that you were jealous of her--did you know that?"

The brittle matter-of-factness alarmed Bodie more than the torrent of abuse pouring from Doyle's mouth. Now that the initial shock had receded, the pallor had been replaced by a sweat-sheened flush and sparkling, glittering, fever-bright eyes. Doyle was still far from well and the news was taking a heavy toll.

"Sit down, Ray. Calm down a bit," Bodie soothed. "Just hang on a minute while I get the doctor--"

"Calm down!" Ray yelled at him. "Calm down! You haven't told me anything yet. What the hell is happening? Why won't someone tell me what's been going on--this is so unreal...I can't believe this is really happening--why have you taken so long to tell me? Why didn't you tell me this days ago?"

"You're not well, Ray," Bodie tried to explain. "You're still not well, you've had a rough time of it and we wanted you to recover before we broke the news."

"Recover!" Doyle shouted. "You could have told me days ago. Christ...two weeks! Two bloody weeks and I didn't even know!"

"Ray, there was no point in telling you before now--"

"No point!" Furious, Doyle glared at him.

"You've been ill, you're still not well," Bodie shouted over Doyle's angry voice. "There was nothing for you to do--nothing that you could do."

"Nothing..." Doyle repeated, suddenly quiet, the contrast in his mood unexpected.

"Nothing," agreed Bodie softly, sensing that the crisis was over. "Everything's been sorted out now; her father is dead; Charles Holly was the Christmas Man. We've got the evidence to prove he was insane and that he was the one who framed you before. We know now that he meant to kill you five years ago but someone slipped up and your Inspector was killed instead; you were left to carry the can with no alibi," Bodie explained into the hush. "When you met up with Ann again he just waited for the right time to try and kill you--only he made another mistake and got Ann instead."

"By mistake..." Doyle said in a hollow voice.

"Charles Holly had been watching you for years because you were interfering with his daughter, Ray," Bodie went on, hoping his partner was listening and taking it all in. "That's why so many things seemed to link you to the drugs ring. Holly was the money behind it all. He had his men watch you. The drug addict--Weston--you remember him? Holly got him to fix your car to arrange an accident; only Weston didn't realise it was a pool car and you'd signed it in before going undercover. DI Taylor drove it out of the garage after your last meeting with him and died instead of you. That's why Weston remembered you so well--Holly had hired him to murder you."

"Murder me...so...he's killed two people trying to...trying to get to me..."

"He was insane, Ray. Completely insane where his daughter was concerned."

"Ann..." Doyle said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I...I..."

"It was over in seconds, Ray. There was about fifty pounds of explosives in the car--she shouldn't have known anything about it." Bodie stopped talking when Doyle lifted his head to look at him.

"Christ," Doyle spat out viciously, his face twisting. "You make me sick! Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he sneered. "She wouldn't have known anything about it, Ray," he mimicked. "How the fuck do you know what she felt?"

"Ray--" Bodie said, trying to calm him down again.

"Don't Ray me, you bastard!" Doyle snarled, slapping Bodie's hands away. "Get out...get out...just get out of here..."

"Ray. Look, Ray, calm down, you're not doing yourself any good getting uptight--"

"I'm not uptight!" Doyle all but screamed at him. "Just...get out...leave me alone--take your fucking hands off me!"

"Just sit down, Ray. Let me call the doctor to give you something." Bodie tried to manoeuvre Doyle back towards the bed. "He'll give you something to calm you down a bit--"

"Take your fucking ands off me!" Doyle strong-armed Bodie away. "I don't want any fucking tranquillisers!"

"It's just shock, Ray. Will you please try and be reasonable?"

"Reasonable!" It had been the wrong word; already furious, Doyle exploded and lashed out at his partner. He didn't feel the jarring pain in his wrist as the solid plaster cast impacted on the side of Bodie's head.

Bodie did. It didn't knock him out but the blow was hard enough to make him see stars. Senses reeling, Bodie crashed to the floor as Doyle snatched open the door and made good his escape. Bodie let him go, thinking that he needed some privacy, some time alone to regain control and recover from the shock.

Head spinning, Bodie slumped into a chair and waited for Doyle to return. Didn't handle that too well, did you Bodie, he thought to himself. There must have been an easier way to have broken the news, he thought tiredly.

Bodie walked over to the door and checked the corridor--no one in sight. Sighing, he went back to the chair--he'd give him five more minutes on his own before going to look. That decided, Bodie settled himself back into the chair to wait. Sleep, the farthest thing on his mind, swept over him--his exhausted body and taut nerves succumbing to the unlooked-for rest. Had it not been for the noisy arrive of a ward orderly a brief half hour later he would probably have slept he day away.

---

With outrage and anger spurring him on, Doyle left the hospital at a brisk pace. It was only several hundred yards down the road that his strength all but gave out and he was forced to rest on a convenient wall.

After the fourth passer-by looked at him with suspicion before detouring so they didn't have to walk too close to him, he began to take stock of his situation.

Sweating and trembling, he guessed he looked as rough as he felt. Another old woman veered across to the other side of the pavement tutting to herself and frowning at him.

Stupid old bag, he thought sourly. Probably thinks I'm just another addict sweating it out. "What's up, ducks," he called out after her. "Never seen someone sitting on a fuckin' wall before?" He shouted at another woman standing by the bus stop. "Am I hurting you by sitting here?" he demanded. "Am I?"

The women clucked like a bunch of nervous chickens at the acid questions. A bus came along and they all clambered aboard, hurrying to get away from the lunatic on the wall. As the vehicle pulled away from the stop, Doyle could see them looking at him, tongues wagging and heads nodding.

"Fuck 'em," he muttered to himself. He shivered as a fresh wind whipped through the light jacket Bodie had brought in for him. He wasn't dressed for roaming the streets and, even worse, there were spots of rain in the wind. He was going to get soaked.

Hands pushed into his pockets, he got off the wall. Where to now, he wondered. Back to the hospital--and Bodie? No, not now. Later perhaps. But he was cold and needed warmer clothes. Home then.

As if on cue a bus pulled up that he knew passed within a few streets of home. Legs shaking with effort, he boarded it and sorted through his pockets for some money--he was sure he remembered picking up some loose change. The walk from the bus stop to his flat was slow, his desire to hurry away from everything and everyone was almost gone. He was nearly home; once indoors he would be able to unwind and relax with the whole, ugly world and its messy problems safely on the other side of the front door.

He had to beg the skeleton key from the caretaker's wife. Looking so unwell, he had no trouble convincing her he had the flu and had managed to misplace his keys somewhere.

The door swung open and immediately he knew someone had been in there. All the doors onto the small hallway wee shut. Quietly he moved down the passage and pushed the kitchen door open. Everything looked tidy...yet different. The bathroom was the same--the shampoo and toothbrush put at the wrong end of the shelf...silently he went thorough each room in the flat. Everything was neat and tidy...too tidy and he knew that the place had been turned over very thoroughly.

Somehow the search didn't bother him--only the thought that someone else had tidied it up for him. Hoping perhaps that he would never know, Doyle wondered calmly.

His calm was shattered, though, when the bedroom door swung open. On the bed were his cases, locks broken and contents bulging out. His chest tightened and he felt a hot prickle behind his eyes as he realised that they had gone through everything. Fighting back his breakdown, he checked the cases thoroughly to make sure that everything was there.

Hands shaking, Doyle found the invitations for the wedding that had never taken place and now would never happen, ever. He tore them all in half. The letters were next, then the photograph album and certificates. Calmly, he tore everything in halves and quarters before showering the pieces over the bed and carpet. He didn't stop until the cases were empty and the bedroom floor invisible under a layer of destroyed memories.

Turning his back on the debris, dry-eyed and outwardly serene, Doyle pulled a warmer coat from the wardrobe and walked out of the flat.

---

Breathless, Bodie ran up the last set of stairs and burst onto the landing. He saw the door standing wide open with the key swinging in the lock and almost collapsed with relief.

"Ray?" Bodie called out as he entered the hallway. There was no answer; he retrieved the key and closed the front door. "Ray?" he called out again, his tension returning as he drew a blank in every room. "Oh shit!" he groaned in despair when he found the mess in the bedroom.

Mentally kicking himself for not having packed the cases away properly and put them out of sight, Bodie sank down onto the bed. "Christ, Ray...I'm sorry," he whispered. He had tidied the rest of the flat up during the days when Doyle had been recovering but the cases he hadn't touched. However hard he tried he had been unable to pack everything neatly back into the two cases. Everything had been tipped out onto the floor and pulled to pieces during the search. Letters had lost their envelopes, pictures had lost their frames; albums had burst open and bundles had become untied.

The cases, Bodie knew instinctively, had barely been touched since Doyle first packed them up over five years ago. For some reason his partner had chosen to save these possessions when his whole world had crumbled around him. They were important to him--or at least they had been before CI5 had poked and pried into them.

Standing, Bodie kicked at a pile of torn paper in disgust. Now thanks to the department Doyle had nothing--not even a suitcase or two of five-year-old memories! Bodie moved; he had to find Doyle. He was sitting at the wheel of his car and revving the engine before he realised he didn't have the faintest idea where to start looking.

It took less than one hour for Bodie to cover the few places Doyle just might have gone to. There hadn't been many places to look; Bodie's own flat, the two pubs they frequented when off duty and the small wine bar just off the Embankment.

Hoping that just maybe Doyle would have gone in the headquarters--after all, Bodie reasoned with himself, where else could he go?--he went there.

Lake saw Bodie moving up the corridor checking out each room in turn.

"What's up," he called out cheerfully. "Lost someone have you?"

"Doyle," Bodie snapped. "Seen him, have you?"

"Er...no," Lake replied, startled. "Thought you were supposed to be taking him to the funny farm this morning?"

"He had other ideas," Bodie said offhandedly.

"Where is he then?"

"If I knew that I wouldn't be wasting my fucking time looking for him, would I?" Bodie bellowed and pushed past to check the locker room.

"'lo, Bodie," Murphy called out as the dark head appeared round the door. "What's got up your nose?" he asked casually as he closed his locker.

"Doyle," Lake answered for him. "Seems he's gone walkabout and Bodie's looking for him."

"Doyle? I thought he was being shipped out to the funny farm this morning--"

"The Beeches," Lake agreed. "That's right--" he stepped out of Bodie's way as he moved on down the hall to the next room. "Only Doyle seems to have had other ideas...what made him take off?" he asked as Murphy joined him following after Bodie.

"He wanted to telephone Ann," Bodie said bluntly. "I had to tell him. Everything...understandably he was...upset." Bodie would have laughed if he hadn't been feeling so miserable. "Upset...that's a bloody understatement! I didn't handle it too well...and things got a bit out of hand. I thought it best to leave him alone for a while. It was a mistake," he finished harshly. "When I went to look for him he was gone."

By now they had reached the rest room and Bodie threw the door open with such force that it slammed back into the wall, jerking everyone in the room awake.

"Well...he must be somewhere!" Lake said weakly.

"Well done, Puddle," Bodie said, his face twisting into a sneer. "I had worked that out already."

"He can't have gone far--he's not fully recovered. I've heard it'll be months before they even think about letting him back onto the squad. What sort of condition is he in?" Murphy asked.

"Physically or mentally?" Bodie asked, voice dripping with contempt. "I don't know--how would you feel if you'd survived being beaten, damn near strangled and shoved in a hole for a week with no food or water? How would you feel if you'd just been told that the girl you wanted to marry had been blown to bits in your car--that it should have been you that died--that your future father-in-law was a fucking psychopath that would do anything to stop you from seeing his daughter? I really don't know, Murph," Bodie ended. "You tell me, because I'd really like to know."

Recognising that whatever he said was bound to be the wrong thing, Murphy wisely kept his mouth firmly shut.

Into the corridor, completely ignorant of what had been going on, wandered Day. Seeing the group standing blocking the door, he shouldered through them whilst trying to unwrap a chocolate bar: intent of separating melting chocolate from cling sliver paper he walked straight into Bodie.

"Oooff...sorry mate," he apologised distractedly. "Oh. It's you. Left Doyle at the nuthouse, have you?" he asked in an innocent voice surprisingly free of malice.

No one stopped Bodie from landing a powerful hook onto Day's jaw. No one even breathed until the swing doors at the far end of the hallway swung shut behind 3.7's retreating form. No one offered to help Day get up from the floor, either.

The stunned silence ended with Murphy breathing a very loud and very visible sigh of relief.

"Well done," Lake said as Day, shocked and bleeding, rose to his hands and knees. "You ever thought about joining bomb disposal--you're a natural at defusing explosive situations."

The whole room joined in the relieved laughter and began to relax.

"What the hell brought that on?"

"What's happening?"

"Where's he off to now?"

The squad all started asking questions at once.

"Why did he hit me?" asked a bewildered Day. "What did I say?"

"Shut up." Murphy pushed Day away. "You bleed over me and I'll flamin' well punch you out as well!"

The rest of the squad were all clamouring to know what had happened and so Lake told them.

There was no surprise at the news that Doyle had reacted badly to hearing the news but they were all puzzled that Bodie didn't know where to find him.

"What about his friends, his family--Bodie must have some addresses?" several of them suggested.

"Oh of course," Lake said mildly. Then, "What friends?"

The quiet question made one or two of the men frown as they began to realise that Lake was trying to tell them something.

"Tell me, Dave," Lake addressed one of them. "You're an ex-copper. Have you ever worked with a colleague who was caught on the fiddle, another copper who was kicked off the force for taking back-handers?" Warily Dave Cooper nodded his head. "Was he a friend, did you ever socialise with him?"

"Yeah...once or twice."

"What about after he was kicked out?"

"Not bloody likely!"

"Why not?"

"Professional suicide--that's why!"

"Professional suicide," Lake repeated quietly. "We all know that Doyle's so-called criminal record is still live, don't we. As far as the world outside of this room is concerned 4.5 is still a criminal. Everyone except for us thinks he's bent--and I do mean everyone. His old colleagues on the force, even his family. No one out there will touch him with a fucking barge pole!" His voice rising with his temper as he spoke, Lake was shaking with rage as he finished. "Friends...what friends--I haven't seen any of you lot falling over yourselves to welcome him."

"He's never put himself out to be the life and soul of the party," Day was heard to mumble.

"Do you honestly blame him? Some people around here have made him as welcome as a tart with fucking VD! Do you really think he doesn't know about the filthy gossip that's been passed around--why the hell would he want to socialise with people who are prepared to believe he let some old lag fuck him around in prison?"

"Then why's he never denied it?" Day asked nasally through a bloodstained handkerchief.

"Why don't you ask him that yourself if you're so bloody eager to know?" Murphy snarled.

"Back off," Day warned, rising to his feet. "What is this anyway?" he demanded to know. "So what if Doyle's wandered off--he's a grown man, he can take care of himself--and don't give me that shit about how we should all feel sorry for him because his girlfriend's dead. So what? He's got eyes, he should have noticed what was going on--"

"Shut up!" one of the men growled from the back of the room.

"He was a detective!" Day shouted over the angry voices. "And then Cowley hoisted him onto us. If he was as bright as Cowley thinks he is how come he didn't see it coming--"

"Somebody shut him up!" another voice called.

"And don't go bleating on about his criminal record--he was given a choice," Day continued. "He agreed to forgo an official pardon."

"How often has the Cow had you agreeing to something that five minutes before you'd sworn you'd never do?" Murphy demanded angrily over the rising voices telling Day to belt up.

"It was Doyle's choice. He chose to--oof!" Once again Day crashed to the floor as another sidewinder blow hit him.

Amidst the cheers, Lake sucked his knuckles and stepped over the prone body. "Right, let's see if we can't organise a search and find 4.5 before the Cow realises he's gone walkies."

Leaving enough people to cover for any emergencies, the squad took to the streets, fanning out to cover the area between the hospital and Doyle's home.

Calling in on his r/t nearly an hour later, Bodie was amazed to hear the Operation Walkabout was well in hand.

---

Alone in his office, Cowley listened to the chatter on the r/t frequency. He didn't use the open channel very often and only a few of the men even knew he had the facility but, at times, it proved extremely useful.

He had arrived outside the restroom unnoticed in time to witness Day digging his own grave. At times feelings and tempers ran high amongst the squad and arguments were not uncommon, but he was careful to ensure violence between the agents was kept to a minimum. Breaches of the rules were dealt with promptly and severely but in this instance, prudence had prevented Cowley from announcing his presence.

The fact that Day had been asking for it for a long time also helped. The animosity between Day and 4.5 had been strong but there had been nothing Doyle could do to dispel it. The stories put around by Day were ugly and distasteful but, Cowley conceded fairly, they were not entirely fabricated. Rather than confront Day, 4.5 had turned his back on the problem--and thereby allowed it to fester and get out of hand.

The open channel crackled into life once more.

"I've checked with the brother's neighbours, seems that the whole family are on holiday--they've gone skiing in France or somewhere, been gone the last week or so. Shall I wait out here in case he comes this way?" Susie asked.

"No, there's little point. He's hardly likely to turn up there now," Dave Cooper answered from the control room.

"Where to now then?"

"God knows...come on back into town, call again when you're close to base."

"3.7 to base."

"Go ahead 3.7."

"Holly's apartment block is a blank. I'm going over to check the shopping precinct, I'll check out the coffee shops and restaurants. He can't still be walking around, he must be resting somewhere."

"Okay, 3.7. 2.4 is already working along the High Street."

"Tell him to check that old pub just behind the Post Office, up past the market place, I went there with Ray only a month or so ago--he might have remembered it."

"The pubs will be closing in another half hour so we'll have fewer places to look then."

"Keep me posted. 3.7 out," Bodie signed off.

Listening to the exchanges, Cowley frowned. Something Bodie said had caused a bell inside his head to ring. Trying to catch the elusive memory, Cowley thought hard--he had it. Quickly he pulled the right file and checked the address. It was only about three miles from Doyle's flat.

Acting on instincts that rarely failed him, Cowley reached for his hat and coat and ordered his driver to meet him at the door. Driving fast, they made it to the pub just in time to hear the landlord shout "Last orders!" Telling his driver to go round the block until she was called, Cowley walked towards the door of The Brewers Arms and peered in. He had known Doyle would be in there. Over the last year Doyle had quietly submitted reports on his visits to the Brewers. After the incident with the local CID it had taken him a month or so to return and even longer before he visited on a regular basis, but as far as Cowley could make out Doyle went to the pub whenever his fiancée had been working abroad or when Bodie had other engagements.

The reports, as requested, were detailed, giving full information on everyone he talked to whom he thought might prove interesting. At first they had been several pages long as he identified and described his contacts and filled in any background information on the dubious clientele that frequented the establishment. It had fast become obvious to both Doyle and Cowley that nothing of earth-shattering proportions was ever going to come from the inhabitants of The Brewers.

At times Cowley suspected his operative of using the reports as an exercise in creative writing: the physical descriptions of certain people being so vivid and Doyle's explanation of their antics so explicit and so different from the formal, blunt approach of his usual reports that Cowley was left with the impression Doyle liked writing the reports; the relaxed atmosphere and friendly bonhomie of the place almost spilling off the pages.

Peering through the grimy windows at the nicotine-yellowed walls and poorly lit interior, Cowley saw little that looked comfortable or relaxing. Sitting slumped on a high back settle was Doyle, eyes closed and face drawn and pale. As he watched, a plump middle aged woman leant over him, shaking his shoulder to wake him up. Cowley saw his eyes snap open and the woman hurriedly step back and guessed that she was telling him it was closing time. Realising that there was no way he could enter the pub without drawing attention to himself, Cowley backed away from the door and waited for Doyle to come out.

Doyle was the last to leave and came through the door with the woman at his side.

"Are you sure you're going to get home all right?" the woman asked anxiously. "Let me call you a cab?"

"'s okay, Ivy," Doyle said in a tired voice. "Just need a bit of fresh air...clear my head a bit."

"More like a week in bed!" Ivy grumbled at him. "You're in no state to be walking around the streets."

"'m okay, Ivy, like I told you earlier--I've just been a bit under the weather--"

"Look more like you've been under a bleedin' bus!" snorted Ivy. "Off you go then, love. Take care, ray. You sure you don't want me to call you that cab?"

"I'm fine. Really. See you, Ivy... Bye..." Doyle waved with his good arm and turned away from the door.

Cowley waited until Ivy had gone back in and the road was clear before waving at his driver to bring the car round. Quickening his step, he soon caught up with Doyle.

At the light touch on his arm, Doyle turned slowly and regarded Cowley carefully with no evident sense of surprise. "Afternoon, sir," he said, slowly realising that some sort of greeting was called for.

"Doyle," Cowley acknowledge, taking in the unsteady gait and sweat-streaked face. "How's it going, lad?" he asked gently. "Been drinking, have you?"

"Wouldn't serve me," Doyle said conversationally. "Made me have a cup of coffee...wanted a drink--but she gave me coffee."

Cowley smiled at the puzzlement in the husky voice. "And how are you feeling now?"

"Oh...fine...everything's fine...'cept...I've got a terrible headache...but, I'm...fine," Doyle answered, struggling with the words. "How are you...sir?" he asked politely.

Taken by surprise, Cowley blinked. "Oh...I'm fine too--but I am rather tired. Do you mind if we ride in the car...that's it, laddie. Mind your head."

As meek as a child, Doyle allowed his boss to manoeuvre him into the back seat of the car. Climbing in alongside him, Cowley murmured "The Beeches," to his driver, then turned his full attention to his passenger. Doyle was flushed and perspiring heavily, he looked more asleep than awake and seemed to be completely oblivious to the strangeness of his situation. Shock, Cowley recognised.

"I'm ever so hot..." Doyle mumbled quietly, moving restlessly in his seat. "Open a...window...I'm too hot..."

"Okay, laddie. Is that better? Do you want to take your coat off?" Cowley opened the window and helped ease the chunky jacket off; there were a few awkward moments as they both tried to draw the sleeve over the plaster cast. Doyle hissed and fell back in his seat, breathing heavily.

"Is it paining you?" Cowley asked.

"Hurts like hell...all the way from my fingers to my neck..."

"Is that more comfortable?" Cowley asked after rolling the discarded jacket up and turning it into a support for the broken wrist.

"Mmm..." Doyle mumbled. "Where are we going?" he asked unexpectedly just as Cowley thought he had dozed off.

"A place where you can have a rest," Cowley said cautiously. "A nice quiet place where you can rest until you feel better."

"The Beeches?" Doyle asked. "That's where Bodie as going to take me..." He eased himself into a more comfortable position. "That's where we were going this morning...but...I left him behind. Sorry...will you tell him I'm sorry...but he...should have told me...should have told me before..."

Cowley was amazed as Doyle wriggled around even further and settled himself down to rest finally pressed up against the older man, his curly head resting on the neatly suited and rather stiff shoulder. Catching sign of his driver's amused eyes as she watched her passengers, Cowley outstared her with ease. When she turned her attention back to the road Cowley allowed himself a small but exasperated smile as he twisted around to ease Doyle into an even more comfortable position. The remainder of the journey was uneventful with Cowley daring his driver to make any comment--after all, it wasn't every day that the Controller of CI5 could be found in the back seat of his Rover cuddling one of his operatives as he slept with his head neatly tucked on his shoulder.

Their arrival at The Beeches was with a minimum of fuss, Doyle not waking up until they had passed through the security gates. Still sleepy and not too aware of his whereabouts, Doyle was admitted and put to bed immediately, the doctors already working on ways to repair the damage caused by his earlier exertions.

---

Cowley arrived back at headquarters at six o'clock and found an extremely worried group waiting for him.

As there had been relatively little happening to keep everyone busy, Cowley had kept the news of Doyle's location to himself. Quite apart from making work for over-trained, under-used hands, he had reasoned that it would do them all good to worry about Doyle for once.

"Sir," Bodie said straightaway. "We've...I've lost Doyle, sir."

"Lost Doyle?" Cowley said. "Lost as in 'misplaced,' Bodie? I must say that's extremely careless of you."

"Sir?" Bodie said, bemused. "Look, he's gone--vanished. He walked out on me at the hospital after I broke the news to him--"

"And you just let him walk out?"

"Yes... No!" Bodie snapped impatiently. "I thought he just needed some time to himself--I never thought he'd take it into his head to wander off--"

"When exactly did he 'wander off'?" Cowley asked in a very disapproving tone.

"Er...this morning...at about...around nine thirty," Bodie answered eventually.

"So," Cowley said. "4.5 vanished nearly eight hours ago and only now do you see fit to report it."

"Sir," Lake butted in. "We've been looking for him since eleven. We thought...hoped we'd find him before...anyone realised he'd gone."

"Anyone meaning me, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," Lake answered dejectedly, looking towards Bodie with mute apology.

"I assume you've checked out his friends, contacts?"

"Of course," Bodie said angrily. "Do you really think we've been sitting on our backsides all day?"

"That will do, 3.7," Cowley said frostily. "What do you expect me to do--produce him out of my top pocket?"

"No, sir," Bodie said, struggling to keep his temper. "We were just about to log him as a missing person. We've exhausted all the possibilities and we need more help--he could be anywhere!"

"No, Bodie. Not anywhere. He's safe at The Beeches. I delivered him there not two hours ago," Cowley said smoothly.

"What?" gasped Bodie.

"Where?" said Lake.

"You clearly don't know your partner as well as you think you do, 3.7," Cowley said harshly. "He was exactly where I expected him to be. As his partner I'm disappointed that you have no idea where that place was--you should have known, Bodie."

Bodie was left with little doubt that he had failed both Cowley and Doyle. Cowley dismissed the others with a glare but ordered Bodie to remain; when they had all left he turned to him.

"I am disappointed in you, 3.7," he said seriously. "You should have been able to find 4.5 just like that." He snapped his fingers. "Just as 4.5 ought to know where you'd run to."

"I know," Bodie answered, cheeks flaming. "Where was he--I just ran out of places to look?"

"You'll have to get the answer to that from your partner," Cowley told him.

"How is he?"

"As well as can be expected--or so the doctors at The Beeches say. He's...exhausted and suffering from serious delayed shock; and today did him no favours. But they were expecting that and he'll get the best possible help there."

Closing the office door, Cowley drew the bottle of malt from its resting place and poured two drinks out. Bodie took his glass and began to relax as the frantic worry eased.

"You do know that he thinks Beeches is just a convalescent home, don't you?" Bodie asked.

"Aye. But he will nee the expert care they can give him if he wants to return to CI5."

"When will they start the...the therapy or whatever it is they do up there?"

"They've started already but it'll be a while before he realises that," Cowley said with a wry grin. "The staff are trained to help patients who have themselves been trained to withstand psychological pressures."

"He'll kick like hell when he finds out," Bodie warned. "What if he decides to chuck it all in?"

"Ultimately, of course, the choice is his," Cowley said calmly. "But we must be sure--for his sake--that outside pressures don't force him to make the wrong decision."

Bodie swallowed the whisky in one too-hasty gulp as the meaning of the trite words sunk in. Ray Doyle was going to receive all the help at CI5's disposal whether he liked it or not.

---

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Directed to a door, Bodie opened it, as yet still uncertain of his welcome. It was almost a relief to find the neatly furnished room empty. He dropped the bag down onto the bed and wandered over to the window.

Behind him, the door opened; he spun around quickly and found Doyle, grim-faced and weary, watching him.

"Hi...nice room, isn't it?" Bodie offered when it was clear Doyle had no intention of speaking first. "Great view, as well," he added.

"Have you come to see me or the view?" Doyle asked sourly as he sat down on the bed.

"You, of course," Bodie answered mildly. "And to bring that. It sort of got left behind on Monday."

Doyle unzipped the case and tipped the clothes onto the bed.

"I'm grateful you could spare the time."

"I couldn't get up here before today. MacArthur's been shifting around again and we've been doing twenty-four hour shifts since Wednesday--"

"So what was wrong with coming up here on Tuesday?" Doyle asked savagely. "I've been stuck in this fucking hole for six days with a Bic razor and pyjamas that would fit you, me and the rest of the squad at the same time!"

"They told me not to come."

"Who's they?" Doyle demanded. "And why did they tell you that?"

"The staff here--I telephoned Monday night and Tuesday, but they said you were resting and weren't to be disturbed."

"So you stayed away," Doyle sneered. "Just because they told you to."

"I thought you needed some time," Bodie answered, more in control now. "You'd had a big shock--Cowley said that you weren't...yourself when he brought you here, that you'd not done yourself any favours charging all over town. You needed rest," he said as he unobtrusively took over sorting out shirts and trousers onto hangers and putting them into the small wardrobe. "And we have been very busy. This is the first chance I've had to get up here."

"This isn't my shaver." Doyle threw the shaver onto the bed. "Where's my dressing gown--this is yours," he said petulantly. "Jesus--can't you even pack a case properly?"

Taking a calming breath, Bodie backed away from the things on the bed and let Doyle get on with it himself.

"How are you feeling?" Bodie asked when his partner finally stopped finding fault with everything he had packed for him.

"Oh, wonderful!" Doyle snapped at him as he struggled into jumper and jeans. "I feel just great."

Bodie was dismayed at how the usually skin-tight denim hung loosely from his partner's hips and legs.

"You look terrible!" Bodie said, tired and irritable himself after nearly a week of little sleep and tedious observations.

"You wouldn't win any beauty competitions either!" retorted Doyle. "And I don't suppose you remembered to pack my toothbrush? The one they gave me here is made of fuckin' wire wool--and what about a decent comb?" Doyle picked his way through the bag of toiletries Bodie had carefully selected.

"You look like you've settled in," Bodie said conversationally. "What are the staff like?"

"They're okay, the nursing staff that is. Some of the doctors are a bit weird though--keep on asking me how I feel. I'd 'ave thought they'd be telling me!"

"Well, they won't know unless you tell them."

"But I keep telling them--I feel fine! They just won't listen!"

"Maybe they just want you to talk to them."

"What about?" Doyle asked. "They ask how I feel and I tell 'em I feel fine. They keep asking and I keep telling 'em--they just don't seem to understand. I feel fine!" Doyle shouted. "For crying out loud, what do they want me to say?"

Sitting quietly and calmly in the easy chair by the window, Bodie made soothing unthreatening comments which gave his partner no opportunity to quarrel or argue and gradually the tension and anger lessened until Doyle was almost relaxed.

It was actually Doyle who suggested they go for a walk and they wandered through the plush corridors and out into one of the walled gardens.

"Those bleedin' pyjamas," Doyle confided with an air of embarrassment. "I only had to walk three steps and they'd fall down round my ankles. First day I was allowed up I got halfway between the bed and the bog when they slipped right down, then, just as I bent down to pick 'em up the door opens and in walks the nurse to the sight of me mooning!" Doyle chuckled good-naturedly at Bodie's amused snort. "And if that wasn't bad enough bending down and then standing up made me so dizzy I dropped my trousers again and nearly blacked out. She had to help me back to the bed and then the trousers got tangled around my ankles and we lost our balance and ended up on the floor." By now Bodie was openly laughing and Doyle found himself responding likewise. "It was very embarrassing!" he managed to splutter between bubbles of laughter.

He was so pleased to see Bodie. After what had happened that day at the other hospital he had been so afraid that he wouldn't come; now that he was here, though, things felt so much better. "Thanks for bringing my stuff," he said quietly once their mirth had died down.

"'s okay," Bodie said awkwardly. "I'm only sorry it took me so long to get out here."

"So am I," Doyle said, smiling.

The moment stretched, leaving Bodie floundering, almost drowning in the warmth emanating from Doyle. He felt his heart pick up speed and felt the heat rushing to his face; his mouth became dry and, unthinking, he licked his lips.

Doyle saw the pink tip flick out and the rosy flush and totally misunderstood the reason. "I wasn't complaining," he said hurriedly, a familiar leaden feeling settling heavily on him and dispelling all traces of happiness at his partner's presence. "I know you've been busy, I just..." he groped uselessly for the right words. "Thanks for bringing the bag," he ended lamely. "I think I'd better go back to my room now, I'm feeling a bit tired. Thanks for coming," he added quietly.

"Ray..." Bodie called after him. Doyle stopped at the door but didn't turn around to look at him. "Ray...I'll come by again as soon as I can."

"Will you?" Doyle asked as he opened the door and walked through. He pulled the door shut behind him.

---

Wandering around the walled garden the next morning, Doyle found a small doorway that was almost hidden behind a large prickly bush. He was still trying to force the rusted bolts back several minutes later when a soft voice surprised him, causing him to jump and spin around.

"I'm afraid it's bolted on the other side as well," the doctor told him. "It's all rusted up--hasn't been opened in years. Why do you want to open it?"

"I was just curious as to where it leads to," Doyle replied, embarrassed without understanding why. "Fancied a change of scenery I suppose. All the other doors are locked--I just wanted a walk."

"Feeling restless, are you? Come, walk with me."

Although voiced as a request, Doyle felt as if it had been an order and he followed Doctor Hardy back through the corridor, finally entering the gardens again through a door that he knew an hour ago had been locked.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Doyle answered automatically.

"How's the arm?"

"Fine." Doyle flexed his fingers. "This should be off in another week or so," he said, tapping the grubby plaster cast. "Weighs a bloody ton!" he complained.

"Your friend, Mr Bodie, came to see you yesterday."

Doyle looked at the man with suspicion, trying to work out what was coming next. "He didn't stay very long, I had thought he was going to spend the afternoon with you."

"He's very busy," Doyle said slowly.

"He has been very worried about you, I think he was rather concerned that he hadn't been able to come sooner--"

"He's very busy," Doyle cut in abruptly.

"Yes," said the doctor. "I suppose he must be. Mr Cowley keeps you all hopping, doesn't he? We were expecting you to arrive last Monday morning with Mr Bodie but then things...happened, didn't they?" Hardy said softly as he guided Doyle around the inner wall of another enclosed garden. "Would you like to tell me what happened?"

Doyle stopped walking as the penny finally dropped. He'd known there was something strange about the man. "You're a psychiatrist," he accused.

"No," said Hardy, smiling a little. "I am a psychologist."

"Same difference," Doyle said warily.

"Actually no. Different profession entirely. Does it bother you?"

"Why should it?"

"Do you like the gardens?" Hardy said, striking off at a tangent. "I think this is the best time of the year; everything about to burst into blossom. We are very lucky to have such wonderful gardeners."

"Are all the doors locked?" Doyle asked, pointing to the heavy wooden doors in the garden wall.

"I expect so."

"Why?"

"All the gardens lead straight into the house. We can't have people just wandering in and out, can we?"

"I've been looking for a way into the grounds. I can see a lake from my bedroom window but I can't find how to get out to it. The only doors that open all lead into gardens like this one. How can I get outside to the lake?" Doyle asked keenly.

"We could take a walk to the lake this afternoon if you like. Would you like that?"

Uncomfortable with the feeling that he was being offered a reward for being a good boy, Doyle declined.

---

Having finally managed to shake Hardy off, Doyle escaped to the library where he flicked through magazines and books without reading or really even seeing anything. He was staring out of the window when he recognised the silver Capri being driven into the car park below. Leaving an untidy pile of books behind, he dashed back to his room to meet Bodie. After five minutes of restless waiting, though, Doyle began to get worried. Why hadn't Bodie come? Perhaps he'd made a mistake--maybe it hadn't been Bodie's car after all, he though.

Trying not to look as if he were hurrying, Doyle returned to the library window and checked on the car. It was parked at the wrong angle for him to see the number plates but he was still positive it was his partner's car.

Confused, he returned to his room to wait for Bodie to come and find him.

It was over forty minutes later before one of the nurses came and knocked on his door. "Mr Doyle, you have a visitor. Would you please come with me, I'll take you to him."

By the time he was face to face with his partner, Doyle had managed to work everything out. Beeches wasn't the convalescent home he'd been led to believe and Bodie had very probably been talking to Dr Hardy about him.

He gave Bodie a very cool reception and followed quietly as he was led out through yet another door into the grounds. He wasn't in the least surprised to discover Bodie intended taking them both out to walk by the lake.

"You're very quiet," Bodie said. "Anything wrong?"

"What could possibly be wrong?" Doyle asked flatly. "Have a good chat with the shrink, did you?"

"Ray... I--"

"Don't deny it, Bodie," Doyle said angrily. "I watched you arrive nearly an hour ago." Turing away, he picked up some stones and began throwing them into the lake.

"I wasn't going to deny anything," Bodie answered. "We're worried about you, of course I wanted to talk to your doctor."

"Shrink," corrected Doyle.

"Dr Hardy is also concerned for you--"

"Why? I feel fine. why won't anyone listen to me?"

"Why don't you listen to yourself, Ray," Bodie said gently. "Who are you trying to impress, me? The doctors? Cowley?"

"I don't know what you're on about."

"Will you just listen to yourself, take a good look at yourself. Admit it to yourself, Ray--"

"Admit what, for Christ's sakes!"

"You won't talk to anyone, you haven't talked about it. You're acting as though nothing has happened, as though nothing has changed--"

"Don't be stupid!" Doyle replied scathingly. "Of course I know what's happened but what will wallowing in misery do to change anything? What happened, happened! Life goes on." A large stone plopped noisily into the water.

"Ray, this is me--Bodie. Will you please talk to me--will you at least look at me!" He snatched at Doyle's arm, spinning him round. "Will you stop pretending," he pleaded. "I know you, Ray, and I know you're hurting--"

"Bodie," Doyle smiled briefly. "You mean well...but you're wrong. Dr Hardy's wrong. I am fine. Really I am. Of course I'm...upset but I'm coping. I am...really. I just want to get on with things, I want to get back to normal. Once this plaster is off and I'm back at work things will be different, you wait and see."

Having already been briefed by Dr Hardy and Kate Ross, Bodie could now see the problems they were up against. Doyle simply refused to acknowledge that there was anything wrong.

"Ray, you aren't coming back to work until the doctors say you're well enough."

"Two weeks, maybe a month by the time I've done a session with Macklin," Doyle told him brightly, too brightly.

"No. Two months maybe--probably longer."

"What!"

"It's not broken bones the doctors are worried about, Ray. It's you, it's inside you. You're bottling it all up and it's going to kill you if you don't let go--"

"No!" Doyle shouted in denial. "I'm not staying here, I'm not hanging around for them to mess around inside my head."

"You've got to," Bodie told him, following after Doyle as he backed away. "They only want to help you."

"Help me!" Doyle nearly spat the words out. "There's nothing wrong with me. I don't need their help--I don't need anyone!" Doyle was walking fast, nearly running back towards the house and Bodie could only follow. Running through the corridors and up the stairs they didn't meet anyone but Bodie knew they were both being watched. Everything Ray said or did had been carefully monitored since his arrival. By the time Bodie caught up with him Doyle was already half packed.

"Where do you think you're going?" Bodie asked quietly.

"I assume you've no objection to giving me a lift," Doyle said, his voice shaking. "I'm leaving here now. I'm not staying here another minute--I'm fine, I don't need this place."

Bodie leant on the door, barring his exit. "You can't leave, Ray. You're not going anywhere," he said firmly. Bodie felt dreadful doing it but knew it was for Doyle's own good; his talk with Hardy before coming to see Ray had convinced him how much his partner needed what The Beeches could offer him.

"Of course I can leave," Doyle said, not hearing the finality in Bodie's voice. There was a knock on the door and Bodie moved to let Dr Hardy in.

"Hello, Ray," Hardy said.

Doyle just looked at him and then picked up his bag. "I'm leaving, discharging myself or whatever I have to do to get out of here," he said in a shaky voice, almost as if he knew that he wasn't going to get away. Bodie had never seen him look so frightened before. "Come on, Bodie, let's go no. Please?"

"I am very sorry, Ray," Hardy said gently. "But you do have to stay here, I'm afraid we can't let you go home just yet."

"Bodie?" Eyes wide and fearful, he turned to his partner.

"'m sorry, Ray," Bodie choked out. "It's for your own good."

"No!" Realising what was happening, Doyle made a sudden dash for the door, knocking the doctor aside. If Bodie hadn't caught his arm he would have made it. "NO!" he screamed into Bodie's face. "Let me go! Bodie let me go! I'm not staying here...you can't make me stay here. Bodie?" Struggling and kicking and clawing, Doyle fought to get past Bodie.

It actually took very little effort for Bodie to pull Doyle away from the door and pin him up against the wall, nor to hold the flailing arms and legs still. Doyle screamed abuse into Bodie's face when he understood the implications of what the two men had told him. He had no choice, none at all. Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle saw the doctor pull a syringe from his pocket and he immediately renewed his struggles to get away. Instead of cursing and swearing at Bodie he began to beg him for his help.

"Bodie, please. I can't stay here. Please don't leave me here. I don't want to stay here, Bodie. Please don't force me to stay." His crying and begging fell on stony ground and Bodie held him still while Hardy injected the shot into his arm.

"Just something to help you calm down, Ray. Nothing to worry about, you'll soon feel calmer," Hardy soothed.

Doyle ignored him once the initial pain of the needle had gone and continued pleading and begging Bodie for help. They were still pinned up against the wall almost nose to nose but Doyle had stopped trying to push him away; now his hand gripped the leather-clad arms almost painfully tight. "Don't leave me in this place, Bodie. Please! I can come home with you, can't I? Tell them I can go home with you? Tell them, Bodie, please tell them...please, don't leave me here..."

"No, Ray...no. I'm sorry, you've got to stay..."

"Bodie please! Don't leave me here!"

"Ray..." Bodie was beyond words and felt helpless to do anything other than return the desperate terrified grip Doyle had on him. To see and hear Doyle crying and begging like a frightened child had shocked him to his very foundation but he knew that he was helpless, there was no way he could give Ray the help he really needed.

The tranquilliser soon took effect and Doyle's eyes grew heavy; the grip on Bodie's jacket became lax. Hardy tried to prise Doyle's fingers from the leather but Ray roused enough to make the doctor jump back in surprise.

"It's okay, Ray," Bodie said, gently deflecting the swing at the doctor's head. "He's not going to hurt you. Relax...that's it...breathe slow and deep...you're doing all right...Let's get you over to the bed before your legs give out shall we...that's it, swing your legs up...go to sleep...just close your eyes and rest."

Standing by the door, Hardy watched the hardened agent gentle his partner.

"Don't...don't go...Bodie...don't...leave me here, please...don't leave me here..." Doyle cried softly.

"Hush up...I'm still here...I'll stay for a while...just go to sleep, Ray, rest...just rest." Soothed by his partner, Doyle fell into a drugged sleep. Bodie didn't let go of his hand until he was deeply asleep and then only with reluctance.

Hardy pretended not to notice the wetness of Bodie's eyes when he finally turned round.

"He'll sleep for several hours. I'll make sure someone is with him when he wakes up."

"I'd like to stay. I want to be here when he wakes."

"No," Hardy said firmly. "I think it would be better if you leave him now. He's a lot calmer and he's finally realised why he is here. Perhaps now he will accept our help. If you are here when he wakes up, though, it could just upset him all over again."

"I can't just leave him! Surely I can help him in some way?" Bodie said as the doctor ushered him from the room.

"He has to face this himself, Mr Bodie. You can't do it for him, neither can I. Later it will be different, the very fact that he's admitted he wants you here means he knows he can no longer cope on his own--that is a start."

Bodie remained unconvinced that he was doing the right thing. His arms were still tender where Ray had first punched him and then gripped him so tightly; he couldn't help but feel that he was deserting him when he was most needed.

Driving back to London alone, Bodie's mind went back over Hardy's reasoning for keeping Ray at Beeches. The last five years of his partner's life had indeed been a veritable roller-coaster but Bodie thought--as had most people--that Doyle had survived it intact. Hardy's opinion was rather different. According to the doctor Doyle had never properly dealt with any of the crises that had confronted him. He had accepted and taken quite calmly all life had thrown at him. Throughout his trial he had quietly protested his innocence and been remarkably unmoved by the devastating "guilty" verdict. The doctors at Ford Prison had predicted a mental breakdown and had been pushing to get the right help when he had flared up, violently attaching a warder. Instead of receiving help, Doyle was sent into a high security wing of a main prison. In Maidstone, the cold, unapproachable prisoner that was Doyle soon became was noticed more for his tendency to cause trouble among other prisoners than his debatably shaky mental health.

It hadn't been until the night duty screws had complained for months about Doyle's screaming nightmares disturbing the entire wing that the doctors began to reconsider. Then he had been released into George Cowley's care.

Had Doyle really been so clever that no one, not even Doyle himself, realised how badly he needed help? Bodie wondered helplessly as he arrived home. He had only just entered the flat, taken his jacket off and poured himself a good, stiff drink when the telephone rang. Whether by accident or design it was several long days before he was allowed the time or space to think about Doyle again.

---

Pulling the consulting room door closed behind him, Doyle checked that the corridor was empty before sighing with relief. He walked slowly back towards the day room where he hoped to get a cup of coffee. This session with Dr Hardy hadn't seemed so long nor so exhausting as the first two; then he had waited, angry and tense, for the questions to come--questions that he would not--could not answer, but Hardy asked no questions at all. Instead they talked about matters Doyle chose to talk about--which was anything except prison, CI5, Ann or his family.

He still had not realised that not talking could be just as revealing as if he had been prepared to chatter away.

In fact, by the time he reached the coffee bar he was feeling very pleased with himself. All he had to do, he told himself, was stay calm; pretend to co-operate with their stupid, pointless relaxation sessions and they he would be able to go home.

"Hello, Ray."

Spinning around so fast he nearly spilled his coffee, Doyle found himself nose to nose with his partner.

"Bodie!" he cried, breaking into an enormous grin. "I wasn't expecting any visitors!"

"Thought I'd surprise you," Bodie said, relieved at his welcome.

"Surprised me all right. I thought you said Cowley had you out of town on a job?"

"Yes. Whole thing broke last night--sooner than expected, but I can't say I'm sorry."

They moved to a quiet corner and sat down. Once the initial surprise had gone through so did the ease they usually felt in the other's company.

"I thought that would have been off by now," Bodie said, pointing to the cast on Doyle's arm.

"One more week, they say. I'll be glad to get rid of the bloody thing. There's a swimming pool here," Doyle said awkwardly, needing to fill the silence but not knowing what he could say. "Once it's off I can have a swim...be glad of some exercise."

"Take the opportunity to have a good rest," Bodie advised.

"I'd rather be at work!" Doyle snapped: he should have known Bodie wouldn't understand. "What are you doing up here anyway?"

"Seeing you, of course," Bodie said carefully. After the first few visits he had become accustomed to Doyle's rapid mood shifts and pretended not to notice them. "And getting away from headquarters. They've got the whole building arse-about-tit with contractors ripping walls and ceilings apart."

"What on earth for?"

"Something to do with the new computer system, I think."

"They're not actually installing the terminals?" Doyle asked interestedly.

Amazed to discover his partner was genuinely interested, Bodie dredged up all the information he could recall hearing.

"This new computer has been arriving any day now, ever since I joined the squad. Don't tell me it's finally arrived?" Doyle was clearly sceptical at the progress of modern technology into the halls of CI5.

"Looks like it," Bodie said with dismay. "Can't move without tripping over blokes weaving spaghetti into the walls. We've even got one of those television things with a typewriter thing in our room. It's called a Vee Dee...something.

"A VDU," Doyle offered helpfully.

"Can't play Space Invaders on it," Bodie said. "God knows what we're supposed to do with the damn thing." Doyle's enthusiasm for the new system did little to improve his partner's dislike of it. Bodie told himself that Doyle was being deliberately irritating in pretending an interest in the subject. Still, he decided, at least it was better than awkward silences and stilted conversations.

When Doyle had exhausted Bodie's meagre knowledge of computers they left the day room and went for a walk around the walled gardens. Since the day Bodie had pinned him to the wall whilst Hardy stuck a needle in him he hadn't asked to go further afield.

"How's it going, Ray?" Bodie asked quietly on their second circuit of the garden.

"Okay," Doyle answered slowly, bitter experience teaching him he had to be as careful with Bodie as he was when talking to Hardy. "I still don't think I need to be here, I could just as easily be at home--but I'm being a good boy, I'm doing what I'm told to do," he said brightly. He knew that Bodie always talked to Hardy before going home and therefore it was important to convince Bodie he was recovering. With Bodie on his side half the battle would be over.

"You've never said anything about Ann. You've not mentioned her since I told you she was dead," Bode said into another lengthy silence.

Doyle reeled with shock. He hadn't expected Bodie to be so blunt and he felt his insides twist painfully. Schooling his features to betray nothing, he turned to face him. "There's nothing to say, is there? She's dead. What can I do about it?"

"Ray..." Bodie faltered, he didn't want to force the issue but felt it was time someone did. Ray was obviously happy to keep on hiding from the whole sorry mess. "Have you even cried?" he asked. "I get the feeling that none of this has even touched you--"

"Have I cried!" Doyle repeated numbly. "Of course I have," he lied.

"Will you please stop...pretending! Ray, if you can't feel anything at least say so!"

"I feel!" Doyle flared, angry. "Do you think I'm made of stone? Of course I feel! Sorry if I can't break down to order and give a public demonstration of grief but that's the way I am. Would it make you feel better if I sat down and cried? Would it? Is that what I have to do to get out of this place?" Suddenly Doyle realised he was shouting and could feel the itch prickle behind his eyes. No, he thought desperately. He wouldn't break down, he had to be strong--he had to! If he gave in to his emotions now he knew he would be finished in CI5. They couldn't keep him here forever, he reasoned. They would have to let him go sooner or later--and then he would be able to show them. He'd show Bodie then, he'd show them all.

"Look," Doyle said when he was in control of himself. "Of course I'm...upset by what happened. But I just want to get on with my life, Bodie," he said reasonably. "Looking back won't change anything, will it? Just because I'm not wearing my heart on my sleeve and snivelling all the time doesn't mean I don't think about...her...I do," he stumbled, unable to say here name aloud, but recovered quickly, hoping Bodie hadn't noticed. "I miss her...of course I do...but she's...gone and I'm still here. Life goes on."

Bodie watched helplessly as Doyle stumbled on, blind to what he was doing. Outwardly Bodie could see he looked calm and composed; there was no hint of the turmoil they all knew was going on inside Doyle. Looking beyond the expressionless face, Bodie saw the dark-ringed eyes that were dull from lack of sleep; hair usually vibrant and thick hung tangled, lank and unkempt; the clothes hung from the lean frame and looked as stale and lifeless as their owner. Nights haunted by fresh nightmares were taking their toll on Doyle's depleted strength.

"Ray, will you do me a favour, please?" Bodie asked as they left the gardens behind and walked towards Doyle's room. "Well, not me exactly, but someone else."

"Depends on the favour," Doyle answered warily.

"Like you said earlier, life goes on," Bodie said slowly. "Not everyone can handle...death as well as you obviously can. Some people take a bit longer. Ann's mother is having a rough time of it." Bodie saw Ray flinch. "Mrs Harrison would like to come and see you--"

"Why?"

"Because she's been worried about you. For a while we all thought you were dead as well as Ann," Bodie explained. "She feels she needs to talk to you--"

"What about? Why?" Doyle asked as he nervously paced about his room. He knew it was a ploy to get to him but he couldn't work out what they were hoping to achieve. What did Bodie and Dr Hardy want from him? "I don't want to see her."

Pulling together the arguments he and the doctor had put together, Bodie began. "Maybe she needs to see you, Ray. Try looking at this from her side of the fence instead of your own. You're not the only person who's lost someone. She's lost her daughter...for christ's sake, Ray. You've nearly married her daughter twice! You're almost family, too. We thought you were both dead. She discovers that her ex-husband has systematically murdered Ann's boyfriends and then kills their daughter instead of you!" Bodie forced himself to draw a steadying breath; the idea was to rattle Doyle and force him to break down, not to clam up and refuse to see anyone. "Maybe she just needs to know that Charles Holly hasn't destroyed everyone he touched. She's known you for a long time...maybe she just wants to make sure that you are all right."

Doyle tried to see the catch in the request. He didn't know that he could face Constance without cracking but there seemed little choice. Perhaps if he coped adequately with Constance they would realise he was well enough to go home. "Okay," he said unexpectedly. "When will she come?"

Just as soon as we can talk her into it, Bodie thought dazedly. They had never expected Doyle to agree. Before leaving the hospital he talked it over with Hardy.

"It is possible that we have misunderstood the relationship Doyle has with Mrs Harrison," Hardy said.

"No way," Bodie said definitely, remembering the stories Doyle had related about the woman. There was no love lost between those two.

But the plan wasn't totally ruined. Maybe a visit from Mrs Harrison would be the final catalyst needed to break down the defences Doyle had meticulously built around him.

---

The morning that Bodie drove Constance Harrison out to The Beeches was cold, wet and windy. Immaculately dressed, her hair curled and lacquered into place and her face precisely painted, she fidgeted and complained every single mile of their journey. In sheer self-defence Bodie turned the car radio on so that he could listen to the road reports that came with regularity every fifteen minutes. For five minutes out of twenty, Constance was forced to be quiet.

By the time they arrived at The Beeches, Bodie was convinced that setting the woman on his partner was going to make or break him. No one could be indifferent to Constance Harrison.

When she was taken away to meet Doyle, Bodie breathed a sigh of relief and escaped into the library to recover. Hardy was in there sitting on one of the large settees talking animatedly to a distinguished looking gentleman seated in a wheelchair. When they finished their talk the Major wheeled himself away and Hardy walked over to join Bodie.

"How was she about coming here?" he asked.

"Reluctant," Bodie grinned. "I managed to convince her that coming here would be seen by others as her 'doing her bit' to help poor Ray."

"You briefed her on what topics to discuss and what to avoid?"

"Of course. I think I managed to put the fear of god in here, she shouldn't cause any trouble...except perhaps for one thing."

"Oh, what's that?"

"She's brought him a birthday present," Bodie said quietly. "It was his birthday during the week he was missing. She found the present and a card at Ann's flat when she was clearing it out. She's giving it to Ray this morning."

"Any idea what it is?"

"No. Was already gift-wrapped," Bodie answered worriedly. "I wanted to check it out but she got all uptight, kept insisting that it was Ann's last gift and that he has every right to get it. In a way she's right--"

"Of course Mrs Harrison's right. A gift from Ann could well help crack these walls he's building."

"How is he doing?"

"We're not making much headway," Hardy admitted. "The nightmares have really got a grip on him. He puts off going to bed until the early hours of the morning and he refuses to turn off the bedside light. He rarely sleeps more than three hours before waking up extremely distressed and then fights going back to sleep."

"What do the night staff do for him?" Bodie asked.

"Oh, nothing," Hardy replied. "There is little they can do--or that he will allow them to do. Any attempt by the staff to settle him is rejected and he refuses to allow anyone to remain in the room while he sleeps. We've offered him sleeping pills but I suspect he's refusing them because he's scared that drugged he will find it so much harder to wake up.

"Have you tried talking to him about these nightmares?"

"I've tried," Hardy said in a voice that left Bodie in no doubt to his lack of success.

"Do you want me to ? I'm sure I could get him to--"

"No," Hardy said quickly. "He already resents the fact that you and I talk about him. It's important that you don't show yourself as one of the people trying to break through his barriers. Just carry on as you've been doing--just be there for him. Be his friend and listen when he wants to talk. I know it's hard," smiled the doctor reassuringly. "But just...be there when he needs you.

---

From the other side of the room Doyle stared in disbelief at Ann's mother and tried to work out why she was there, why she had bothered coming to see him.

"You're looking...well, Raymond," she said stiffly, politely not commenting on how awful he really looked. "Are they treating you all right here? A strange place," she hurried on without waiting for his answer. "I thought I knew all the good private hospitals but I must confess that I have never heard of this one." She looked around at the plainly furnished room. "Of course Edgar, that is Ann's Uncle Edgar, my brother, has been in private medicine for years. He has never involved himself overmuch with the National Health Service. I am sure that if you wanted to we could get you into Edgar's hospital...if you wanted to, that is," she faltered. "But then as you know, Edgar is a surgeon--I do not know that he can deal with...other problems."

"Might as well stay put then," Doyle offered helpfully.

"It is a frightfully long way from London," Constance complained. "It has taken us nearly two hours to get here--it ought to have taken longer but that young man drove so fast. Honestly," she sighed. "It's a wonder I'm here at all."

"Who brought you?"

"That man, Mr...I've forgotten his name..."

"Bodie?"

"Yes, that sounds like it. Mr Bodie. It's a wonder he still has a driving licence if he always drives like that.

"It was good of you to come," Doyle said, making an effort to appear sociable.

"Yes," Constance agreed.

Conversations between the pair had never been easy even when Ann had been there to field for them. Politeness and convention gave Constance a guideline from which to talk and she stuck to it rigidly. Doyle told her that he was getting on fine and that the staff seemed efficient and well trained. Yes, the hospital was a long way form London but the gardens were very nice and no, he wasn't on any drugs. She told him how nice the funeral had been and that she had been sorry he had not been there; everyone, it seemed, had missed him. Doyle apologised for his absence but she assured him everything went all right and he learned that Bodie had arranged for a wreath, in his name, to be delivered.

She went on that everyone had enjoyed the buffet luncheon she and Mr Harrison had laid on after the funeral and how grateful everyone was, particularly Grandmother Alice, that Mr Cowley had been able to keep the awful press people away.

He was told where Ann had been buried. On the left-hand side of the cemetery, near the oak tree and overlooking the park but nowhere near the dreadful main road with its tacky, cheap little corner ships. Doyle declined the offer of choosing an inscription for the headstone, a white marble angel holding an open bible with the option of gold or black lettering, and Mrs Harrison said she would try to choose something appropriate.

When the short visit had lasted over half an hour, Doyle was already numb from the shock of it all when Constance pulled the gaily wrapped box from her bag. "I found this," she said, thrusting it into his hands. "It's for you so you might as well take it. Ann bought it for you before..." for the first time since entering the room Constance Harrison faltered, her bright voice cracked and tears threatened her composure and makeup. Drawing a lace-edged square from her bag she dabbed at her eyes. "Do come and see Mr Harrison and me when you get out...when you get home. We can have tea... Yes, do drop by for tea..."

On that note she left, hurrying back to the front door where she was forced to wait for her lift back to London.

Watching the sniffing woman retreating at top speed from the room, Bodie waited a few minutes before approaching the door.

Doyle looked up form the inscription on the card in tie to see Bodie enter. Handing him the car he began to tear the paper off the box.

It was a shirt.

Very nice. Fashionable. Very expensive.

It was white...with neat little blue stripes.

Doyle's grip on the plastic box threatened to crush it and Bodie eased it out of his hands. For an instant it seemed as if Ray was going to fight to keep hold of the box. Their eyes met and Ray knew Bodie understood; he let him take the box and throw it into the rubbish bin.

Standing so close together in the quiet room, Bodie ached to be able to ease some of his partner's pain. "Ray?" he said softly, brushing a gentle finger over the damaged cheek to draw his attention. "You okay, mate?" he asked gruffly when he saw the misery in the green eyes. "Can I do anything?"

At first he thought Doyle was going to refuse but then he stepped forward into his arms, blindly seeking comfort.

Bodie felt the choked sob and tremor that shook Ray as he held him tight in his arms. For long minutes they simply stood there, holding on tightly, giving and taking the comfort and love they needed.

Rubbing his hands over Ray's back, Bodie felt that at last they were getting somewhere--for Ray to admit he needed this was a start. But, even as the thought formed, Doyle pushed him away and walked backwards out of his grasp.

"Ray?" Bodie said tentatively.

"Sorry," Doyle mumbled. "Shouldn't have done that--"

"I don't mind," Bodie said gently. "Anytime--"

"I'm fine now, Doyle responded, lifting his face up, revealing how far he had already retreated. "Thank you for bringing Constance. Are you taking her home as well?"

"Yes," Bodie said sadly. "I'll come by tomorrow afternoon. Do you want me to bring anything?"

"See you tomorrow then," Doyle said mildly and then turned his back on Bodie, mentally dismissing him as he concentrated fiercely on the view out of the window.

Guessing that there was little point in his staying, Bodie turned to leave, stooping down to lift the rejected gift out of the rubbish bin and taking it with him as he went.

When he arrived at Hardy's office he found the doctor still watching Doyle on the monitor; before he switched the picture off Bodie could see that he hadn't moved from the window.

"I don't think that was very successful, do you?" Bodie asked.

"Quite the contrary," Hardy said slowly. "I think it went rather well. What is the significance of the shirt? His reaction was not what I had expected."

Bodie showed the doctor the box. "It's a very nice shirt," he said. "If the blue stripes were a fraction thinner it could pass for prison issue."

"What?"

"The shirts issued inside are standard blue and white cotton. Doyle would never choose a shirt like that!" Bodie said in disgust.

"Miss Holly was obviously unaware of that," Hardy mused consideringly.

"I doubt Ray ever discussed prison with her. He never brings the subject up with me--in fact he avoids it; simply refuses to be drawn. I used to think..."

"You used to think what?" Hardy enquired when Bodie's voice tailed off.

"Well...Ray and Ann," he started awkwardly. "He talked about her once or twice before he met up with her after joining the squad. I got the feeling that she was his...ideal woman. She was all he'd ever wanted and expected from a woman or a wife, and that if he could get her back everything would be all right. If only he could convince her to marry him it would be as if all the bad things had never happened."

"By marrying her as he had intended it would effectively negate all the bad memories and he would be able to pretend it never happened," Hardy said thoughtfully. "Yes, especially if he never discussed his life in prison with her--it would make it easier for him to simply blot out those years completely."

"Once or twice," Bodie said, "I got the impression that he didn't so much want to marry her, but that he needed to...but then I could be wrong, I rarely saw them together."

"No, no," Hardy said. "I do believe you're right. He didn't want to marry her, he needed to so he could turn the clocks back."

Driving a thankfully subdued Constance back to London, Bodie was thoughtful. Without his interference, his coaxing and teasing, Bodie guessed that Ray and Ann would have drifted apart soon after meeting up again. The only thing that had kept the couple together was Ann's guilt and Doyle's desperation to turn the clocks back. Maybe Ann's gift had helped, though, Bodie thought, remembering the way Doyle had clung to him for comfort; his only regret that the moment had been so brief, but even as he'd pushed himself away--mentally as well as physically--Doyle's finger's had kept a tight grip on Bodie's jacket--as if he wasn't convinced that he wanted to let go.

Dropping Mrs Harrison off at her London home and continuing towards the centre of town, he began to wonder if perhaps Hardy didn't have it all wrong after all. Perhaps time and space were not what Doyle needed right now--maybe he was waiting for someone to step in and reorganise his life for him. Possibly all he needed was a little guidance to set him on the right path and to leave him floundering, lost and alone was wrong for him now. Reasoning that he was a poorly qualified psychologist, Bodie still felt he knew Doyle a damn sight more than anyone at The Beeches. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would be firmer with Doyle, tomorrow he would see if he couldn't snap his partner out of the dream world he was existing in and start bringing him back to reality.

Reality, Bodie discovered the next day, had its own problems. Finding himself down for an afternoon and evening session at the Dorchester Hotel, Bodie had gone out to The Beeches mid-morning only to have to wait over an hour for Doyle to finish a session with Dr Hardy.

Already in a foul temper, Ray Doyle was in no mood to deal with any surprise visitors and told Bodie, in colourful terms, exactly where to go and what to do with himself.

Realising that the session with the psychologist had not gone very well, Bodie gritted his teeth, remembered his new resolve and hung on.

"What the fuck do you want anyway?" Doyle asked eventually. "Thought you said you were coming this afternoon?"

"Duty got shifted. Murph's gone sick, Taylor's busted his collarbone so I'm covering for them on a double shift later today."

Scratching at the newly exposed skin on his forearm, the relief of having the cast removed having been ruined during the session with Hardy, Doyle was in no mood to feel any sympathy for his partner. "Suppose I'll have to amuse myself playin' bleedin' solitaire again this afternoon," he grumbled.

"That's right, take it out on me! It's all my fault of course!" Bodie sniped, feeling vary put out. "The way you carry on anyone would think I deliberately work twenty-hour days, seven days a bloody week just to make you go off in a sulk!"

"I do not sulk!" Doyle shouted and threw the paperback he'd picked up across the room.

"You," Bodie informed his partner forcefully, "always sulk when things don't go how you want them to and you bloody well know you do so don't try to deny it! And another thing," Bodie warmed to his theme, feeling free for the first time in ages to reveal a little of his true feelings and hurt. "I could have stayed in town and had a row with anyone I damn well wanted to." He advanced on Doyle, who retreated from a finger that threatened to bruise his ribs. "If you want a fucking argument, say so! I am just about fed up with all this pussyfooting around. I have had it to my back teeth with being careful when I talk to you and I'm more than fed up with you treating me like a lump of fucking dirt." Bodie had Ray backed against the bedroom wall and he was pleased to see a different emotion in the green eyes. At least fear was an improvement on apathy and misery. "Now, if you're not in the mood for visitors, say so and I'll go. You know my telephone number--when you feel up to being civil just let me know." Their faces only inches apart, Bodie could almost smell Doyle's fear. "Well, do you want me to stay?" he demanded to know.

There was no answer immediately forthcoming; the moment stretched, the room silent save the sound of Doyle's rapid pants for breath as he stared into his partner's eyes.

Temper rapidly being dulled into a crushing disappointment, Bodie pulled back, stepping forward again quickly when it appeared that Doyle was about to slide bonelessly down the wall--but he recovered quickly and side-stepped the helping hands. Taking Doyle's instinctive movement as another sign of rejection, Bodie backed away.

He'd failed. Losing his temper had not been his intention and now he had only made things worse. "Like I said," he offered quietly as he walked towards the door. "You know how to get in touch." Outside in the corridor he waited for a few minutes, hoping even now that Doyle would come after him. Eventually, disappointed and totally dejected, he continued towards the stairs and the way out to the car.

Back in the room, Doyle remained against the wall, too scared to move or call out. He knew what he had done; he'd driven Bodie away. He wanted to call out to him, to call him back, he wanted to run after him and force him to come back but he couldn't. Inside his head he screamed out after Bodie, begging him to return, pleading not to be abandoned there again--but his body would not respond to his commands.

Minutes ticked by and the desperate urgency to run after Bodie faded. Moving from the wall, he turned to the window and stared blindly out, concentrating on keeping calm and not breaking down. He knew that the camera pointing into his room had seen everything and hoped that it would now see him being perfectly calm. He couldn't afford not to be calm and he concentrated on giving a good performance for the all-seeing, ever-vigilant camera. When he knew he was in control, he turned away from the window and retrieved the book he'd earlier thrown across the room. He sat in the armchair, facing the camera, and opened the book.

Upstairs in his office, Hardy sighed and switched the monitor off. For a moment he had thought they were getting through to him.

Back in the room, Doyle stared blindly at the open pages. If Hardy had been able to focus the camera more precisely he would have seen the book was upside down.

---

The orderly had to knock on the door three times before gaining the attention of the man sitting staring out of the window.

"Mr Doyle?" he asked when the man finally acknowledged him. "There's a visitor for you down in the day room. Would you like me to bring him up here?"

"A visitor?" Perhaps Bodie had come back, Doyle thought hopefully. "I'll come down, thank you." His heart hammering against his ribs, Doyle hurried down to the day room. His hopeful elation was cruelly crushed, though, as soon as he saw who was waiting for him.

"Hello, Ray," Bob Craig said cheerfully, his smile slipping fractionally when he saw the wild, wide-eyed man before him. "How are you doing, you're looking..." His voice tailed away as he guessed that truth might not be very tactful.

Doyle had no idea his disappointment was so obvious. He was mentally kicking himself for being so stupid event o think Bodie would come back after the morning's argument. It seemed he could do nothing right; whatever he tried, whatever he did, nothing seemed to work out the way he intended.

Trying to do the right thing had lost him everything. It had started years ago when he tried to rid himself of the painful, hurtful feelings of loneliness and isolation by seeking a solution in marriage to Ann. He'd hoped a future with her beside him would make everything wrong feel right it hadn't. No matter how hard he tried, nothing had gone right. When everyone else had deserted him he really believed that she would stay--but she hadn't; like all the others she left him alone--even more alone than before. Meeting up with her had been a god-given second chance he'd clutched at frantically but even then it had still gone wrong.

He knew now that he had lost her forever but, deep inside he'd known he wasn't really alone, not now; he had Bodie. Even when things had been going wrong between him and Ann, Bodie had been there and he had grown used to it. He had begun to believe that whatever happened, whatever he did, Bodie would always be there--but now he knew he had lost him too. He had pushed Bodie too far this time and Doyle knew he wouldn't come back, not this time.

"Ray?" Craig said nervously, looking around for an attendant. "Are you okay, do you feel faint?"

"No," Doyle said, snapping himself out of it. "Sorry, I was expecting...someone else."

"Bodie," Craig said. "Bloke on the gate mistook me for him on the way in. I hadn't realised visitors had to book in or I would have called before leaving London. The security here is pretty tight--I thought they wouldn't let me in if I wasn't on the list so I let them think I was your partner--I hope Bodie won't have any trouble getting in," he added, worried suddenly at the implications of his actions.

"He was here this morning," Doyle said woodenly, only half listening to Craig. "I expect they forgot to alter the list."

"Well, the reason I'm here," Craig said, pleased that Doyle seemed more alert now, "is because I guessed you'd want the good news. You've certainly been kept waiting long enough."

"Good news?"

"Your compensation payment has finally been agreed. Full settlement will be paid into your account just as soon as you sign these papers and I pass them back to the Home Office."

"The full settlement," Doyle said slowly. "Why now after all the delays--why now?"

"Well," Craig said uncertainly. "I did warn you that it would take some time--though I must confess even I hadn't expected it to take this long."

"So, after everything that's happened, after all this time," Doyle said icily, "they suddenly decide to settle now. I wonder why." It wasn't really a question, Doyle already knew the answer.

"Would you just sign here," Craig indicated the place, "and here, and finally here."

Doyle signed the papers in silence.

"That is your copy, I'll take these back to London with me."

Back to London. Craig's words hit Doyle like a brick, sending his sense reeling. Back to London. He could find Bodie in London and apologise. He had to get back to London to find Bodie, he had to get out of The Beeches and away from the doctors and the prying cameras.

Planning his escape even before he consciously acknowledged the thought, Doyle watched Craig refasten his briefcase and stand up. The security had already made one cock-up and it was clear to Doyle that Craig had no idea what sort of place The Beeches really was. "I was planning on taking a ride into town myself," he said. "Do you mind giving me a lift in?"

Slightly unnerved by the sudden switch from icy control to friendly casualness, Craig was unwilling to go anywhere with Doyle but found himself reluctant to say so. "Well..." Craig knew he was sweating but the composed, perfectly calm young man standing before him was terrifying him without doing anything more menacing than smile. "If it's all right with the staff here...I suppose so. Will you need a warmer jacket?" Maybe, he thought quickly, he could get help when Doyle left to get a coat.

"No, it's not raining is it? Looks quite mild out--nice day for a drive. Let's go shall we?"

Unable to refuse, Craig allowed Doyle to steer him out to the visitors' car park. They passed several people but to Craig's dismay, not one gave them a second look.

Answering the urgent call, Dr Hardy reached the monitor room just in time to see Doyle and his visitor moving across the entrance hall near the way out.

"Who is he?" Hardy asked.

"Security passed a Mr Bodie through an hour ago," the technician answered. "But he was here earlier this morning and left over three hours ago. I've no idea who this one is."

Hardy rang the security box by the car park. "Don't let the car through," he ordered. "If possible, separate Doyle from the driver but don't panic him--just keep them there until I arrive with some help."

When the car was flagged down by the stout uniformed guard, Craig knew he would probably only have one chance to get away.

"Afternoon, sirs," the security man said cheerfully. "If you'd like to step inside the booth and sign out," he asked, already opening the driver's door for Craig.

Before Doyle could react, Craig removed the ignition key and got out of the car.

Although there was nothing in the guard's behaviour to alarm him, Doyle recognised the delaying tactics. Nervously looking around, he couldn't see anyone coming towards him. He saw the keys dangling form Craig's hand.

He needed the keys.

As soon as Doyle opened the car door, Craig knew what he was after and stumbled in his haste to get inside the security booth. The guard saw him coming also. "Now then, lad," he said in a friendly voice. "You just hold your horses there--you don't want to do nothing daft now, do you?" He stepped sideways to block Doyle's access to Craig. "Don't go alarming yourself. We'll all just wait here for a bit, shall we?"

"Give me the keys," Doyle demanded.

"Ray," Craig said, shrinking back into the booth. "I'm so sorry, Ray. I just didn't realise..."

"Give me the fucking keys!" Doyle all but screamed as he tried to force himself past the older man.

The guard put his hands on Doyle's shoulders and tried to push him back gently.

"Get out of my way," yelled Doyle furiously. "And you, give me those fucking keys!" He could see Hardy and some male nurses pouring out of the house. "Just hand them over!"

"Come on, son," the guard tried to reason with Doyle. "There's no cause to go getting uptight--just calm down and everything will be just fine." He was forced to push his full weight against the smaller man to keep him out of the booth.

Doyle's mind registered the hard bulge under the man's armpit and reacted even before he was conscious of what it implied. Pulling the man's jacket open his hand closed on the gun, yanking it free of the shoulder holster.

"Give me the keys!" Doyle ordered, pointing the gun first at the guard and then at the horrified Bob Craig. The keys landed on the floor at Doyle's feet and, keeping both men covered, he stooped to pick them up.

On the pat outside, Hardy and the other men saw what had happened and came to an abrupt standstill.

Acting smoothly, keeping everyone covered, Doyle backed towards the car and climbed in, igniting the engine, slamming the door and roaring off in a screech of tyres before anyone had a chance to stop him.

Hardy ran to the booth and called the outer perimeter security. "Close the gates and don't let him through. Let him see that you're armed but do not, I repeat, do not do anything that will panic him into shooting."

Driving through the parkland, Doyle thought he had escaped until the heavy iron gates at the out wall appeared before him. He saw at once that the guards standing before the gates were armed; they were each holding their guns over their heads. He stopped the car fifty yards away.

He wound the window down and leant out; pointing the handgun towards them, he shouted, "Move away from the gate!" No-one moved and he shouted again. "Open the gates and move away." He revved the engine, showing them he meant business, but they stayed staring back at him, unmoving.

The sound of vehicles approaching from behind got louder. Spinning the wheel, he turned his car and took off over the grass, away from the road and the blocked exit.

Following behind, Hardy was relieved that so far Doyle had not fired. If they were careful they would be able to disarm him without anyone getting hurt. He had no idea what had finally sparked Doyle into such a violent reaction but hoped that they would all remain intact long enough to reap some benefit from it.

Doyle knew he was running out of options when he passed the third gate with guards holding their guns above their heads. His confused mind recognised their non-threatening stance even as it saw his exit was barred. Short of running the men over and shooting his way out he knew there was no escape.

The building that housed the swimming pool loomed up before Doyle and he drove towards it. The open parkland offered no cover at all and he knew that eventually they would catch up with him. All thoughts of getting away from Beeches were gone; his prime concern now was getting away from the men chasing him. He had to get himself some time to think of another way out.

Running, he left the car and dashed into the building. From the pool area he could hear shouts and splashing and so he turned left and ran up the stairs away from the voices. Behind him the shouts changed and he knew his followers had reached the building too. At the end of the corridor a door was half open; he ran through it and found himself in a stairwell.

Up or down. Undecided, he hovered. He moved to go down but below a door crashed open and heavy footsteps began coming upwards. Behind him in the corridor were more people rushing towards him and, left with no other option, he went up. At the very top he pushed open a door and found himself on the roof. He ran first to one edge and then another and saw the people running around down below. They looked up and saw him, immediately men began scaling the external fire escape.

Trapped, Doyle ran back to the stairwell and closed the access to the roof behind him, pulling the bolts across securely. He could hear them running up the stairs below him. Cornered, his eyes darted from the roof access and back to the stairwell.

"Stay back!" he cried at the top of his voice. "Stay back--don't come up any higher--don't come up here or I'll shoot!"

On the stairs the footsteps halted. In the sudden silence Doyle heard them running across the roof. "Stay away from the door!" he screamed, the note of hysteria adding to the fear and horror of all that was happening. "Get away from me! Go away! Go away!"

On the roof and on the stairs they heard the hysteria in Doyle's voice and backed off. At the bottom of the stairs Hardy called everyone back. Doyle had cornered himself safely.

All they had to do now was persuade him to surrender the gun.


...Continued in Chapter 22...

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