The Professionals Circuit Archive - Killing Notes	  Killing Notes

 

by Ellis Ward

  
 *Monday*

The door to the rest room swung open with an exaggerated creak. The sound
set Bodie's teeth on edge and made him think, inanely, of sharp, wooden
stakes-and how they might be used to eliminate anyone who would intrude
upon him at this moment. Through eyes slitted thinly enough to bely sleep,
he noted that it was Murphy who had come in, and subterfuge was not
necessary: Murphy had not seen him, nor was he likely to, slumped as Bodie
was in the corner behind the support pillar, head propped against the
wall, torso shielded by the back of a molded-plastic chair, legs stretched
out across the lap of another, and the entire lower half of his body
hidden by the much-used, and much-battered table he had chosen to
commandeer as his own.

Intent upon remaining unnoticed, Bodie took in a deep, silent breath,
folded his arms more comfortably across his chest, and beckoned sleep once
more. From the opposite end of the room soft noises indicated that Murphy
had coaxed a beverage out of the vending machine. There came the scrape of
a stirring straw colliding with polystyrene; the drone of Murphy humming
agreeably, if tunelessly, to himself: these but minor distractions
undemanding of Bodie's attention. No sooner had he begun to drift
pleasantly free of his surroundings than the complaint of unoiled hinges
rent the quiet again. Shooting a searing glance at the door, Bodie was
instantly mollified when Ray Doyle sauntered into the room.

Doyle spied him at once, despite his jerry-built concealment. Although he
neither said nor did anything that would betray his partner, Doyle's green
eyes lit with cynical amusement. Good-naturedly, Bodie grimaced back.

Dropping the plastic stirrer into the bin, Murphy looked up. "Ahhh, Ray."
From his comparatively vast height, he offered a sympathetic grin.

"Murph."

"Back from the hinterlands, I see."

Doyle stepped up to the vending machine while fishing coins out of a
pocket. "Go ahead," he invited placidly. "You know you can't resist."

The taller agent muffled a cough of laughter behind a fist. "Only-I
wondered if this assignment proved as *penetrating* as you originally
expected?"

"Bugger off." Doyle drew the freshly filled beaker out of the chute and
peered doubtfully into its depths. "Ugh." Lifting it to his lips, face
puckered and twisted like a gargoyle's, he nevertheless took a sip.

"Horrid, isn't it?" Murph said companionably. He raised his own beaker in
a comradely toast. "Still-bottoms up." Murphy attempted, but failed, to
strangle a giggle.

Doyle yawned. "That's right, mate, have your fun; Bodie's been looking for
someone to thump."

"You're his other half; let him do *you*." Murphy grinned angelically.
"Get it: *Do you. *"

"Oh, subtle. Very subtle."

Cup empty, Murphy lobbed the crumpled remains into the bin. "Must say, you
seem to be coping. Being a backstairs man must agree with you."

Refusing to be baited, Doyle sidled closer to the other agent. "You
flirting with me?"

"Heaven forbid!" Murphy intoned piously. "Mind, you don't say something
like that in front of Bodie-looks like being the jealous, broody type, he
does."

"Well, yes, I expect he could be," Doyle breathed huskily. "But he trusts
me, doesn't he?" Head cocked to one side, Doyle made a slow, comprehensive
visual circuit of Murphy's body. "A handsome lad, aren't you?"

Rolling his eyes, Murphy snorted. "Careful, Ray. I'll be checking your
wrists if you keep that up." He waggled his own hand feyly up and down.

With a smooth smile that did not quite reach his eyes, Doyle murmured,
"You know, I'll wager Cowley hasn't told you yet. About you and Stuart."

"Won't wear, my lad. I already have an assignment."

"You *did* have, you mean. Taking over for us, the pair of you."

This time, a flicker of irritation compressed Murphy's lips before the
cocksure smile slid back into place. "You're making that up."

Doyle batted his lashes at him. "Actually, I'm not. He's keen to bust
McKenzie, is Cowley. Now that MI6's blown *our* covers, there's nothing
for it but to send in someone else." A chipped tooth glinted whitely,
prominently displayed. "You, as it happens."

Murphy continued to smile forcedly, giving little away. "Don't believe
you."

" 'S the truth," Bodie said heavily. Extricating himself from his
make-shift bed, he had the satisfaction of seeing Murphy startle at sight
of him. "The Cow said so." He wended his way through the empty tables and
unneatly berthed chairs, stretching as he went, unkinking the knots in his
back and shoulders.

"Christ. I think you really mean it." Murphy's expression might have
elicited sympathy from less hardened observers. "But I told you. I'm
already on a job."

Doyle shook his head, softly tsking.

A little desperately, Murphy said, "Give it up, okay? Was only having a
bit of fun."

"No joke, Murph," Doyle informed him with a hint of commiseration as false
as his smile. He raised a hand and tested the mobility of his wrist. "He
debriefed us on the drive back to Town."

"And of course," Bodie interposed brightly, "we recommended you-and
Stuart. Remembered how well the two of them get along, didn't we, Ray?" He
reached out for the beaker in Doyle's hand. A headache throbbed dully at
the base of his skull; following a night in a holding cell with a dozen
disgruntled men, he longed for his bed.

"Of course we did. `Only the best,' we said. McKenzie and his lot'll be
wary now," Doyle explained. He watched expressionlessly as Bodie drained
the tea from *his* beaker. "But we told Cowley, if anyone can worm their
way into a larcenous gang of blokes, Murphy and Stuart are the men for the
job."

"Bollocks. He would've told me by now. And Stuart's under cover somewhere
in north London."

"Being recalled; he's due in Friday. It's *that* important!" Bodie assured
him reasonably. "Ah, don't fight it, Murph. After all, it'll probably take
months establishing your covers. Might as well get yourself in the proper
frame of mind." Bodie delicately cleared his throat. "You and Stuart."

"I don't believe you," Murphy repeated emphatically. Yet dumb horror
lurked in the back of his eyes. "Okay, so it was a rotten joke. You'll get
worse from the others, I warn you."

"Undoubtedly. But *we're* not joking," Doyle said.

"And it won't be much longer before *you're* the Aunt Sally," Bodie
promised him.

"We'll see about that. There are some things a man can't be asked to do."
Murphy made as if to move forward; Doyle obligingly, but unhurriedly,
stepped out of his way.

"Don't fret, Murph: Stuart's experienced-he'll be gentle."

Murphy exposed his teeth. "Sod off!" he snarled. Grabbing hold of the door
knob, he gave it a vicious twist. "If Cowley thinks he can-" Abruptly and
without warning, he found himself face to face with George Cowley.

"If Cowley thinks he can what?" the controller of CI5 asked with acute
interest.

"I- They said- That is-"

"Spit it out, man."

Collecting his dignity like an invisible cloak, Murphy stood taller,
shoulders squared, chin held high. "Nothing, sir. Was just off to check
the roster for next week."

Cowley's gimlet glare offered no encouragement, but he politely turned one
shoulder aside, clearing the threshold.

As Murphy strode into the corridor, Doyle called after him, "You'll like
it in Leeds. They're very friendly there!"

The door swung closed on the rest room.

"Sowing discontent?" Cowley asked.

"More like taking a bit of stick," Bodie retorted. "And we seem to take it
better than he does."

"Never mind. I've had a call from Guy's."

The two agents sobered instantly. "One of ours?"

"Olivia Wingate."

"What happened?"

"Details are sketchy; but it appears she was savaged by a large animal,
possibly a dog."

Doyle frowned. "A dog."

"Possibly. Take your car and meet me there. I'm leaving now."

"Sir," Bodie said.

******

Two minutes later they were in Bodie's favored pool car, a silver Capri,
driving easterly toward London Bridge and Guy's Hospital. It was late in
the afternoon, nearer four than three, but only just. Doyle sat quietly
slumped in the passenger seat, gazing out at the traffic clogging the
streets, the people thronging the pavement. The weather had turned chill
this twentieth day of November, and a misting rain descended from an
all-encompassing greyness, the separation between heaven and earth almost
imperceptible.

"Mission accomplished?" Bodie asked, activating the turn signal indicator
for a right-hand turn.

"Yeah, Betty said she'd be happy to help. Just as well, really, now that
it's all go again. I'd never get round to the bank; and Walker will only
take cash."

Bodie smiled without humor at the note of beleaguerment in Doyle's tired
voice. His partner had got no more rest the previous night than he. "Lucky
we finished those reports when we did, eh?"

"Yeah." Doyle drew a face. "Not that it would've made any difference.
Bloody Cowley."

"Think of Murphy and Stuart; you'll feel better."

Doyle let his head fall back against the neck-rest. "There is that."

After a moment's silence, Bodie risked a glance at his partner. Doyle's
eyes were closed. The weariness betrayed by his voice was even more
evident in his face: Beneath new stubble, he was ashen, and the lines
about mouth and eyes were notably pronounced. 

Not that Bodie imagined he himself looked any better. Last night had been
one of the longest of his experience, though in truth nothing physically
demanding had taken place. No, it was the closing of an important-if too
short-chapter in his life that that night had signalled-and he had been
unprepared for the suddenness of its ending.

Ray Doyle would *not* share his bed tonight.

"We're here."

Doyle snorted and raised his head. "Looks familiar," he said trenchantly.

"Ought to. Been here often enough, haven't you?"

"And you."

Leaving the car at the curb, Bodie led the way flashing his ID up the
sloping pavement to the main entrance to Guy's Hospital. Doyle trailed a
half step behind.

Through the wide, glass double doors, they saw Cowley speaking with a
young woman behind the reception counter. As they entered, he glanced
their way, waved a hand beckoning them to follow, and struck off down the
wide corridor toward the lifts. Bodie and Doyle hastened through the foyer
and skipped a step or two in order to catch up. Impatient as always,
Cowley stood between the lift doors, a hand bracing one gliding panel-and
thereby, both-open. The two men dashed inside, Cowley pushed the button
for the third floor, and the floor beneath them began to rise.

"Anything else you can tell us?" Bodie asked. He and Doyle occupied a
corner of the cabinet, shoulders brushing as the jostling upward movement
brought them into contact.

"Miss Wingate was on special assignment," Cowley replied. He opened the
thin file in his hands and silently perused the information divulged
there. "She is not in good condition, gentlemen. It is unlikely, I am
told, that she will survive the night."

"What operation was she on?" enquired Doyle.

The cabinet lurched to a stop; the lift doors glided open. "That I cannot
tell you."

"But if it has something to do with her attack-"

Cowley stilled Doyle's protest with a single look. "I cannot tell you
because I do not know."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged a single look. Cowley irritatedly urged them to
keep up; obedient to his every command, they increased their pace.

Even from a great distance, Bodie knew which room had been assigned Olivia
Wingate: A single CI5 agent stood guard outside. He studied them now as
they approached, his expression clearing as recognition surfaced.

"Howard," Cowley greeted abruptly. "You know Bodie and Doyle."

"Sir. Back in town, are you?" Amusement shimmered in Albert Howard's eyes.

Bodie merely nodded. Doyle gamely bared his teeth.

"Her doctor just left," Howard announced. "She's hooked up to a thousand
tubes, and there's an aide sitting with her."

Cowley acknowledged this with a distracted *hmph*. Howard laid a hand on
the latch and gave it a turn; on quiet feet, Cowley padded inside.

Close on his heels, Bodie took in the appearance of Olivia Wingate from
over Cowley's shoulder. Howard's description was grossly inaccurate, of
course; but Bodie suspected he was off by only a few hundred in his count
of tubes attached to Wingate's still form. The woman's face and much of
her hair were hidden beneath pink-stained bandages; what injuries lay
shrouded under sheet and blanket could only be guessed at.

The young aide left her seat near the top of the bed. "Who are you,
please? Doctor said no one was to-"

"I'm George Cowley."

"Oh." The woman extended a hand, palm up. "I must see some
identification."

A grudging smile toyed with the carved corners of Cowley's mouth. "Per my
instructions." Without further comment, he fished out his wallet. 

"Thank you," she said, scrubbed-clean fingers angling the small document
for closer viewing. Satisfied, she turned her clear-eyed, but steely gaze
on Bodie and Doyle. "And yours, please."

Having seen Cowley's prompt cooperation, they were ready for her. She
carefully compared their photos with their faces before inclining her head
in approval.

"I shall leave if you like," she informed the controller of CI5. "But for
no more than five minutes. Miss Wingate has not regained consciousness.
Please do not disturb her."

"I understand." His attention rested on the injured woman for a long
moment. "And I would like a few minutes alone."

"As you wish."

The woman quit the room at once, noting her watch as she went out.

Tucking the folder under one arm, Cowley walked nearer the bed. An
expression of frustration mingled with helplessness touched his cool blue
eyes. Instinctively, Bodie and Doyle took position at the foot and far
side of the narrow bed, as though guarding every access point. They were
uneasy in this situation and place-as were all operatives-and Olivia was
one of theirs, a looking glass reflecting their own vulnerability.

"Two weeks ago Miss Wingate requested permission to launch an
investigation into the deaths of several MPs. She assured me that her
source was solid, reliable; but she also acknowledged that there was
little to support her source's concerns."

"Were they murdered?" Doyle asked. "These MPs?"

"According to Olivia, aye. But, somehow-more than murder was involved."

"More than?" Bodie murmured skeptically.

"You needn't take that tone, Bodie. Miss Wingate noted that all the
supposed victims died under apparently innocent conditions. She had
certain suspicions, however, which she did not like to disclose until she
could provide evidence. And, as she was due a bit of personal leave-"

"Ah."

Cowley fixed Doyle with a piercing stare. "Miss Wingate is ambitious and
diligent."

"Most commendable," Doyle said, his voice carefully free of all
inflection.

"And I could remind you of a few instances when you and Bodie have pursued
independent investigations."

"But without ambition," Doyle averred.

"Hm." Wordlessly, Cowley reached out and tugged the top edge of the
bedclothes a little higher round the unmoving body. He gestured them away.
As Bodie reached for the door, the handle moved. He stepped out of the way
so the patient's small, female protector could enter.

"We're just leaving, Miss-" Cowley searched for her name badge. It was not
like him to forget-perhaps, Bodie thought, he was more upset than he
wanted them to know. "-Sullivan."

In the corridor, Cowley waited until the door to the room was secured once
more. Then he said to Howard, "You understand how important it is that I
be informed at once of any change in her condition?"

"Yes, Mr. Cowley."

"Who's your replacement?"

"Spencer; seven this evening."

Without another word, Cowley swung round and struck off down the corridor
leading to the lifts. One-handed, he placed his glasses on his nose, then
opened the file which had yet to leave his hold.

He spoke as he walked. "A commotion was reported near the bottom of the
King's Road just after three this morning. Police constables patroling the
area were able to respond within seconds. Outside a public lavatory, they
saw a woman under attack by a very large animal. Though it was dark out,
that area was well lit; nevertheless, the officers would conjecture only
that the animal might have been some sort of dog, very big, with a white
or light grey coat. As they approached, the animal turned on them. They
shouted and waved their truncheons to frighten it off, then rushed the
beast. It ran away into the darkness. The woman-Olivia Wingate-was
suffering multiple lacerations and a severe loss of blood. An ambulance
arrived in good time and whisked her here, where emergency surgery saved
her life and repaired most of the damage. As she was carrying no
identification, we were not aware of Miss Wingate's situation until her
absence was remarked upon and a routine survey of local hospitals
made-about two hours ago."

"Why should anyone have noticed?" Doyle wondered. "If she's working on
personal time?"

"Because she's working under the aegis of this department, Doyle. As such,
she's observing standard procedure."

"And her identification?" Bodie asked.

"Whereabouts unknown. Vehicle Control has been alerted; it is assumed her
car was left somewhere in the Chelsea area."

"She didn't want to give away the fact that CI5 are involved," Doyle
suggested.

"Very likely." They had arrived outside the lifts. A touch upon the call
button opened the doors. Cowley walked inside the sparsely furnished
cabinet and waited for Bodie and Doyle to follow. "I'm keeping this as
restricted as possible," he stressed.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Bodie?"

"Was Olivia armed?"

"Yes."

"Was her weapon found?"

Cowley's mouth flattened into an cheerless line. "It was."

"Had it been fired?"

"It was empty." The lift came to a halt at the ground floor. As light and
noise spilled inside from the foyer, he added, "And *none* of the rounds
were recovered." He marched into the lobby, wasting no time as he cut
around the corner which led to the entrance.

Registering the implication of Cowley's words, Doyle shot Bodie a shrewd
glance before insisting, "None? Not in a wall, the pavement, *nowhere? *"

"Nowhere," Cowley said implacably. At the glass double doors, he stopped
and faced the two agents. "I'm handing this case over to you. Here's the
police report." Two sheets of paper were thrust into Bodie's hand. "I want
to know who is responsible for Miss Wingate's injuries; I want to know
what she was investigating prior to the attack and who her source was. As
soon as possible. Any other questions?"

*Millions*, Bodie thought wryly; he knew, however, that there would be no
answers forthcoming from Cowley.

Doyle shrugged his shoulders. "You'll let us know if Olivia comes
round-*when* she comes round?"

"Aye, I will. And Miss Sullivan and her colleagues will be instructed to
speak with you whenever you ring in." Cowley took off his glasses. "Good
day, gentlemen."

They watched him walk away-the proud bearing, the measured tread, the
ignored limp, all bespeaking the mind and soul of a military man.

"Fat lot of help he is," Doyle reflected.

"SOP. Where do we start?" Bodie held the door open, allowing his partner
to precede him into the gloom of the pre-winter late afternoon. "Olivia's
flat or the scene of the attack?"

"Scene of the attack, of course." Doyle grinned sidelong at him.

Bodie's heart turned over. Inside, he froze: What was wrong with him? He
managed a twist of smile in return. "Of course," he said.

******

They crossed back over the Thames at Battersea. The sickly wash of
daylight was rapidly fading, the sky growing increasingly grey as evening
descended. Doyle read the report aloud as Bodie navigated the car onto
King's Road. The details merely fleshed out what Cowley had already
related to them. Neighbors at the outer edge of World's End had contacted
police upon hearing a woman's cries intermixed with the snarls and growls
of an animal. ("If it was a dog, why didn't anyone bloody well call it a
dog?" asked Bodie condemningly.)

Police Constables Ireland and Brittain ("True!" Doyle exclaimed.) had
reacted immediately upon intercepting the request of available assistance.
They had run past the public lavatories just off King's Road to the rim of
the clearing, where in the shadows they had sighted the roiling figures.
By then the CI5 agent was down and a strangely formed, dog-looking
creature ("Someone was smoking something he oughtn't," Bodie decided.)
loomed over her, head down, jaws poised for the kill. Neither of the
officers had heard reports from the woman's pistol; several of the council
tenants, however, swore that shots were fired. A search then and in the
morning had uncovered no spent bullets. Empty shells littered the ground,
and one had ejected into the agent's shoulder bag, which lay on the
pavement in front of the women's lavatory.

The woman's blood, spattered about with frightening exorbitance, gave
witness to her struggles and the direction the combatants had taken. The
responding officers noted that small drops were found just outside the
door to the lavatory-the site of the initial encounter; between there and
the copse of trees that fringed World's End, the gore increased, until
small puddles colored and wet the ground. ("Sounds like a horror flick,
don't it?" Doyle said in an aside.)

As soon as the police constables had intervened, the creature ("*Dog. *
What else could it be?" Bodie insisted.) shifted position as if it would
confront them. When they started in its direction with truncheons raised,
however, the animal had bounded into the dark. Rather than attempt
pursuit, the two men had focused their efforts on keeping the injured
woman alive until medical assistance could arrive.

The car braked to a stop along the curb several hundred feet from the site
of the attack. Doyle, report in hand, unfolded himself to step out onto
the pavement, then set off toward the public lavatories.

These were housed in a low, block building, which was well-kept and
recently painted. As he neared the structure, Doyle glanced back to find
Bodie only a few feet away. He waved the paper in Bodie's face. "They drew
a little sketch." He pointed at the door to the women's lavatory,
indicating that they should start there. They strode to the entrance
together, heads bent forward. A woman came out, recoiled at sight of them,
then hastened away, giving them a very wide berth. They scarcely noticed
her, eyes fixed on the dull discoloration marring the surface of the
pavement.

"From here to there," Doyle said, nodding his head toward the stand of
young trees perhaps thirty feet distant.

Together they used the crude map to guide them to the stretch of ground
where Olivia Wingate had tried to fight off her attacker. The pavement
gave way several feet shy of their destination; from the edge of the
concrete the earth was cold and hard-packed. Near the trees, the soil was
softened by decaying foliage. All the same, signs of disruption
remained-and though the police had performed their customary clean-up,
patches of blood-darkened earth could yet be discerned.

"Three AM," Bodie said, rising to his full height, while Doyle crouched
near his feet, examining the ground. "She had to use the loo, so-"

"Or she was checking something out; some movement, maybe."

"Maybe. In any case, she was taken by surprise."

"Not so surprised she didn't manage to snap off seven shots."

"D'you reckon they went wild?" Bodie wondered. "Cases but no bullets.
Perhaps she fired into the trees."

"*Someone* would have found something."

"Maybe."

"Maybe," Doyle conceded. Pushing upward, he curved his spine alarmingly,
hands planted at the small of his back. "Nothing like a night in an
overcrowded cell," he muttered. Startlingly green amidst the drab veil of
rain, his eyes searched the area surrounding them.

"Make you appreciate your own bed, won't it?" Bodie said practically.
"Somewhere off King's Road, don't you think, Ray?" An arm swept in a wide
arc indicating the expensive homes and gardens common to Chelsea.

"We'll have a better idea once Olivia's car is found." Doyle wiped his
hands with finality. "Let's go back to HQ, eh?" he said. "It's freezing
out here."

"Right."

In fact, Bodie was quite happy to leave the scene of Olivia Wingate's
attack. Imagining the night, a frigid mist, and a huge dog, snarling and
snapping, trying to rip out a body's throat struck at a deeply guarded
part of him that rarely met the light of day.

******

Thanks to early evening road congestion, the two agents did not pull into
the car park under their present headquarters building until after six. By
then the night had spread its black wings, smothering the earth like a
broody hen, its cloying darkness dulling the glow of streetlamps and
doorlights.

It was with a sense of seeking refuge that Bodie settled inside the
cubicle he and Doyle called their own. Weeks had passed since last they
had used it, but nothing had changed: At the top of the desk stood a tiny
transistor radio, legend for its tinny speakers and broken volume
control-Doyle's; a framed picture of a center-fold beauty, overlaid with a
cut-out bear's head, chicken feathers and duck's feet-all appropriately
arranged to guarantee her modesty-graced the right corner-Bodie's. There
were other bits and pieces recognizably theirs; nothing, of course, of any
great value, monetary or emotional. But it lent a certain personal
touch-and a shared one, at that-that gave Bodie a degree of comfort he had
never known elsewhere.

Doyle appeared round the edge of the partition, two mugs-not
beakers-gripped in his hands. Bodie gave a sigh of pure pleasure as the
scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted past twitching nostrils. "You're a
godsend! I ought to marry you," Bodie said fervently, hands wrapping
lover-like round the very hot mug given him.

"You already did." Doyle sat in the opposite chair, one leg hoisted over a
corner of the desk. "Count yourself lucky."

Using the mug to shield his face, Bodie pretended to gaze down into milky
depths. "We haven't talked about it much."

"What's to talk about? The op's been scuppered despite two weeks-and
more-of bloody hard work. Criminal, that's what it is."

"And Murphy, earlier today?"

Doyle caught his eyes and held them. "He's still breathing, isn't he?"

"Somewhat to my surprise," Bodie admitted.

"Only because you wanted to thump him yourself."

This statement merited some thought; Doyle was, as usual, right. "I wasn't
that obvious, surely?"

"Don't often come down that hard on our Murph, that's all. And anyway,
it's a nine-days' wonder; it'll pass."

" 'Course it will." Bodie stuck his nose back into his mug. "So what'd you
come up with?"

"There's nothing in Livi's desk; nothing in her locker-pertinent to the
op, anyway."

" 'Twas ever so," Bodie said darkly. "I rang Dispatch; requested a list of
incoming and outgoing traffic for the past month. They'll have it ready
sometime tomorrow morning."

"And Records?"

"Was told she'd asked for some information on several different
individuals. Low priority, however: May have to wait until Thursday.
That's if we're lucky."

"Thursday's three days away!" Doyle slapped his almost-empty mug onto the
desk with an audible crack.

"See what Cowley says tomorrow. He's already left, by the way." Bodie
twitched his brows meaningfully.

Doyle took a moment to consider. "Reckon you're right. There's not much we
can do till we find out what she was working on. Maybe she left her notes
at home. We can check her flat first thing tomorrow." He studied Bodie
with sudden intensity. "Any word on her condition?"

"According to the aide-what's her name-?"

"Sullivan."

"That's right. Miss Sullivan said Olivia's condition is `essentially
unchanged.' From the tone of her voice, I took that to mean it might even
be a little worse."

"Very likely," Doyle said grimly. "Finish your coffee, mate. I want to go
home."

"Your car still in for repairs?"

"Another day at least, according to Hibberd."

"Which means I'll have to be up half an hour early again," Bodie sniffed.
In truth, he did not mind. Extra time spent in Doyle's company was never a
hardship.

"You'll survive. Hurry *up*, Bodie! Look, I'll put up the dosh for a
Chinese take-away. Eat at my place; make it worth your bother, eh?"

Such philanthropy was not to be refused. "Deal," Bodie agreed, before
Doyle should change his mind. Hooking his jacket over a forearm, Bodie
downed the remainder of his coffee with alacrity, then led the way to the
door. He had not expected Doyle to seek his company tonight-even to mull
over a new case. Rather, he had imagined Ray would ring up the most
desirable of his current girlfriends, proving if only to himself, that the
last two weeks had been a ruse and no more.

Why Bodie was not possessed of the *same* notion did not warrant
speculation.

******

*Tuesday*

" 'Morning." Bodie was greeted at the open door to Doyle's flat by his
partner who wore only unbuttoned blue jeans slung precariously low over
narrow hips, and a still-sodden towel draped round his neck. "Oversleep?"
Bodie asked kindly.

Wordlessly waved inside, he made his way directly to the kitchen, drawn by
the hope more than the smell of coffee. "Tea?" he complained loudly.

"You know I prefer it first thing," Doyle called from the bedroom. "But
there's toast in the oven."

"Off your feed?" Bodie poured himself a cup, added sugar and milk, and
sucked down a bolstering sip before reaching for the oven door.

Doyle padded into the kitchen on bare feet, fingers deftly fitting buttons
into corresponding holes on the placket of a silky green shirt. "Some
marmalade in the fridge," he said helpfully. "Made extra toast, didn't I?"

"Ah- For me?" Bodie sighed rapturously.

"Nah, for the neighbor's cat. Wouldn't have any, so I saved it."

Bodie was not put off. "Generous to a fault, you are."

"And you're an idiot. Eat your toast." Doyle swooped down to collect his
trainers from under the table. As he passed through the doorway into the
hall, he added off-handedly, "Dreamt of you last night."

Doggedly concentrating on his second breakfast, Bodie refrained from the
obvious response. Doyle was teasing him, but Bodie had no intention of
encouraging his bloody-minded partner just yet. It would be something
silly-but that was okay. No one made him laugh like Doyle did. He remained
sublimely removed even after Doyle returned some minutes later. By then
curly, dark auburn locks were nearly dry. Doyle had put on a bulky,
cream-colored cardigan over the green shirt. As usual, the sleeves of both
were shoved up to his elbows, exposing thin, but well-muscled forearms
darkened with fine, dark hair.

"Haven't seen that shirt before," Bodie remarked noncommittally. He rose
from the table and scooped crumbs into his paper serviette. The handful
was ferried to Doyle's rubbish bin on the far side of the sink cupboard;
he glanced across as Doyle took the used mugs off the table and rinsed
them out.

" 'S old. Ran out of clean clothes, didn't I?"

Bodie grinned. "Maybe you can sweet-talk Betty into doing your laundry,
too."

"There's a thought."

Outside, the morning was dazzlingly bright in sharp contrast to the
previous day-it was, however, predicted not to last. Though the pavement
was mostly dry, here and there lingered leaves saturated with moisture
accumulated over the past weeks. Doyle kicked through a small clump of
these as they passed under an ancient maple now denuded of its autumn
finery. A smile rested on his face and was unselfishly turned in his
partner's direction as Bodie unlocked the passenger door.

Shaking his head, Bodie sauntered round to the other side, then clambered
into the driver's seat. He keyed the ignition, waiting only long enough
for Doyle to get a firm grip on his door before pulling sharply away from
the curb. "You're in a good mood," he declared with a hint of derision.

"And why not?" Doyle countered expansively. "We're home, the day's
fine-and I ought to have my Harley on Wednesday."

"The love of your life." Smoothly negotiating the early morning rush-hour
traffic, Bodie stifled a yawn.

They had shared a quiet evening, forgoing talk of Olivia Wingate for an
extensive news refresher. The newspapers of the last month had been held
in the care of Doyle's neighbor awaiting his return. Since this was an
important aspect of their jobs, they had found it a pleasantly relaxing
means of winding down. Doyle was half asleep on the sofa when Bodie said
his good night. Falling prey to the power of a drowsy green, darkly lashed
gaze, he had winked at Doyle despite his protestations and let himself
out. In his own bed, sleep had come swiftly if not quietly: His night had
howled with savage, strange dreams-of great-fanged dogs, their jaws red
and dripping; of Doyle, waiting in his own bed-for whom, the dream did not
disclose; and of the two of them, curiously, dancing together a stately
waltz, their movements refined and sure. Both had been attired in silk
morning suits-Doyle's white, Bodie's black-

"You awake over there?"

" 'Course. I'm driving, aren't I?"

"That's questionable. Just missed that blue Rover by an inch and a half."

"Come on! That was no more than an inch!"

Groaning dramatically, Doyle asked, "What's on the agenda for today?"

"HQ first; pick up Livi's notes. Maybe swing by the hospital if she's
doing better."

"She isn't," Doyle informed him flatly. "I rang first thing."

"Off to her place then. After that we'll see what Dispatch have come up
with."

"If anything."

"More like `if anything usable.' She's well-liked; probably has a slew of
admirers."

"You're encouraging."

"Faint heart. Anyway, what are you bleating about? Got a good night's
sleep unless I'm mistaken. Ready to take on the world by the look of you."

"Better than you," Doyle stated bluntly. "What'd you do last night? Ring
up one of your old girlfriends? Go a few rounds under the sheets?"

"Went to bed alone, actually," Bodie assured him. "Just-couldn't sleep."

"You!" Doyle scoffed. "Are you sickening for something?"

"I'm all right. Probably missed all your twisting and turning; better than
a lullaby, that was."

"Hm."

By nine o'clock, they were driving through south London toward
Headquarters once more. Olivia Wingate's flat had provided no answers to
their questions. Had they been interested in her preference in reading
material, casual attire, and taste in food, their curiosity would have
been sated. In fact, the woman conducted her personal life in a manner
befitting all CI5 agents. Nothing in her flat gave away her working
existence.

"Let's hope Dispatch have something for us," Doyle muttered, as they
walked into Cowley's antechamber. Betty looked up from her typewriter,
dismay wreathing her face-which intensified at sight of the two agents.

"This afternoon, Ray," she said sternly.

With hands spread high and wide, Doyle defended himself, "We're here to
see Cowley, love. Need some help securing a bit of interdepartmental
assistance."

She sighed. "He's awfully busy...."

"Try him," Bodie said persuasively. "It's about Olivia."

"Yes, I had heard you've been assigned her case." She bit her lip
fretfully. "All right, but if he shouts down the phone-"

"All our fault," Doyle agreed.

As Betty rang Cowley's private number, Doyle spun on heel and eyed his
partner knowingly.

Uncertain what that look signified, Bodie attempted to exude equal
abstruseness. "By the way, what was your dream about?" he inquired,
meaning only to distract his partner.

"My dream?"

"You said you dreamed of me-"

"Yes, sir," Betty said loudly. "Please go in. And be prompt about it!"

Doyle hastily obeyed, Bodie following smartly on his heels. Inside, Cowley
awaited them behind his vast desk, the polished rosewood surface strewn
with files and papers.

"What is it?" he asked curtly.

"Olivia requested some work-ups from Records. They've told us we have to
wait till Thursday, at the earliest to have them," Bodie explained
plaintively. "Is there any chance they can be budged on that, sir?"

"We've pretty much run into a wall," Doyle elaborated.

"What about her own records?"

"Not to be found. We've searched her work area and home. Nothing." Doyle
straightened a little. "Has her car been located? It's a long shot, but-"

"I'll be told the minute it turns up. And Dispatch? Have you started there
yet?"

"Got 'em moving yesterday, actually," Doyle replied with labored civility.
"We're hoping there may be something waiting at our desk."

Cowley ground his teeth together. "I'll handle it. You'll have the files
requested by Olivia tomorrow at the latest."

*Wednesday*, Bodie thought sourly. It would have to do.

His partner was not so patient. "Tomorrow-!" Doyle began.

Bodie silenced him with an elbow to the ribs. "Thank you, sir. Appreciate
your help."

Doyle glared balefully at his partner as he was precipitously ushered out
of the room. Once clear of Cowley's view, he was released; Bodie
solicitously pretended to brush lint off his sweater.

Betty looked up at their arrival, her expression bleak.

"Something's come up, hasn't it?" Bodie asked, jerking his head toward
Cowley's office.

"Just coming off a hostage situation at the Museum of Moving Images. It's
almost taken care of; but Mr. Cowley's been at his desk since the middle
of the night."

Doyle tsked softly under his breath. "Anything we can do?"

"He'd've said, Ray," Betty replied. "He's upset about Miss Wingate, too.
Perhaps the best thing-"

"Right. C'mon, mate." Doyle placed both hands flat against Bodie's back
and marched him toward the door. The heat of his palms seemed to burn
through the layers of jacket, shirt, and t-shirt.

"Oh, and Ray-" Betty called after them.

"Yes, love?"

"Should have your money after one or thereabouts. That's the earliest I'll
be able to get away."

"Great. Just ring me, okay?"

In the corridor outside the antechamber, Doyle suddenly caught hold of
Bodie's sleeve and gave it a tug. "This way, sunshine."

"Our office is over there."

"Need something to wet me parched gullet. You?"

"Yeah." Bodie came about, lumbering heavily. "And I expect you want to use
my change as well?"

"Bit short at the moment," Doyle conceded, not at all shamefaced.

"At every moment, you mean." At the door to the rest room, Bodie said,
with emphasis, "Your dream-tell me about it."

Inside, the walls echoed with the sound of their footsteps beating a
tattoo on the linoleum floor. Giving the empty room a glance, Doyle headed
for the vending machine. "Wish they'd put a proper coffee-maker in here,"
he grumbled. "Had to beg some off Mandy yesterday."

"Mandy," Bodie murmured, reflectively. "The redhead, short, a little
Rubenesque?"

"No, that's Sheilagh. Mandy's the black Irish. About so high; a handful
north and south."

"*That* Mandy. You talked *her* into coffee? Thought she's hated you since
that night-"

"She likes *you*," Doyle explained with a show of teeth. "Said I'd put in
a word for her."

Bodie extricated a palm, full of coins, from a pocket and held it out.
"Tea, please, you smooth devil."

"Ugh. Coffee for me, this time of day."

"Opposites attract," Bodie replied glibly.

"Must be true. Look at us, after all."

"Uh huh. Okay, now out with it-your dream, Ray. Or was it too boring for
words?" Arms folded across his chest, Bodie hiked his bottom onto the edge
of a table.

Giving his nose a rub, Doyle inserted the money and made his selections.
"Was one of those weird numbers-y'know, all impressions, colorful sounds,
noisy colors?"

"Like a Picasso painting?" Bodie asked with a laugh. He gratefully
accepted the cup handed him. Striking a pose, he turned his head to one
side, and screwed his lips back toward his audience. "Did I look like
this, then?"

"A little." Doyle fetched a second steaming cup out of the dispensing
compartment. He glanced past Bodie's shoulder as the door hinges gave a
squeal. Noting the dismissal in Doyle's eyes, Bodie assumed that someone
had poked a head in only to retreat at once. "And I was disappointed, I
can tell you," Doyle concluded.

Bodie raised his chin, affronted. "Disappointed? In me?" His tone implied
that such happenstance was inconceivable.

"Yeah. Seems those ten inches you're always boasting were only three."

Bodie's tea bubbled with the force of his chuckle. Raising his head, he
found himself eye-to-eye with Doyle, whose purposeful expression gave him
pause. Before he could divine his partner's intention, however, his mouth
had been claimed and covered by Doyle's lips.

A number of thoughts exploded in Bodie's mind: that Doyle should do such a
thing; that he himself should allow it to continue; that the mouth molded
to his was inhumanly warm, pliant, and very-

From the end of the room near the door, there came a soft hiss followed
instantly by a snort of derision.

Doyle broke the kiss. "Anson," he said, on a note of surprise. "Just like
you to barge in."

"Carry on, Doyle," Anson said magnanimously in his droll, smoky voice. He
shook out a match and dropped it to the floor. "I'm an open-minded sort of
bloke."

Suffused with chagrin and shock, Bodie realized that Doyle must have been
aware of Anson's presence all along. *He had been set up. *

"Nah," Doyle said wryly. "Bodie's shy." He met Bodie's eyes-and flinched
slightly at what he found glinting within them. "Ought to be something
from Dispatch waiting for us. C'mon, you. You can thump me later."

Flushing anew at a rude snigger emanating from the other agent, Bodie
growled, "Thumping isn't the half of what you're going to get, sunshine."

"Must mean it's back to ten inches, Ray," Anson observed gleefully,
exhaling a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. "Better be careful he doesn't
rupture something vital."

Bodie took to his feet in one slow, fluid movement. Wheeling round on the
balls of his feet, as coiled as a snake and at that moment as dangerous,
he located Anson and drenched him with a frosty grin. "It's ten and a
half-just for the record-and he takes every inch of it. *Don't* you, Ray?"

All wide eyes and twitching lips, Doyle bobbed his head in agreement. "And
begging for more, you sexy bastard," he stated in a tremulous voice.
Thereupon he spun round and hurried out of the rest room, spilling coffee
with every loping step of the way.

Anson, for his part, had dissolved into a coughing fit suspiciously
resembling laughter.

"Those cigarettes'll be the death of you, Anson." Snarling softly to
himself, Bodie took off after his partner, stoking his anger with images
of torture and agonizing retribution.

******

"Doyle, you swi-!" Bodie ground to a halt both vocally and physically out
of deference to the phone pressed tightly against his partner's ear. The
weasely bastard might, unfortunately, be speaking with Cowley, and Bodie
wanted no audience for what he had to say.

"Yes, thanks, that's brilliant." Disconnecting, Doyle grabbed up a handful
of computer printer pages. He said quickly, "Dispatch came through." He
waved the sheets for emphasis. "We've a month's worth of Olivia Wingate's
telephone traffic. While I was waiting for you"-he could not have arrived
more than thirty seconds before Bodie-"I had a butcher's and spotted at
least three good starters."

"Raymond Doyle, one-man investigation team," Bodie sneered. "Was that your
first try on the phone, then?"

"That was Records, confirming Cowley's promise to give the ciphers a
nudge."

"Today?"

"No-I said a nudge, not a rocket. Tomorrow, as Cowley promised, by noon.
They really are swamped, but will do all in their power, etc., etc."

"I'll believe that when I see it." Accepting for the moment that Doyle
must not be battered to gooey little fragments until he had been removed
from Cowley's protection, Bodie contented himself by snatching the
print-out out of Doyle's hand.

According the faded print a cursory examination, Bodie noted at once that
Doyle was quite right; three different numbers occurred with regularity on
the first page, which encompassed the week just past. "Not that frequently
dialled numbers mean much," Bodie muttered as much to himself as to Doyle.
"She could've set up this op based on one phone call made two months, or
more, ago."

"Or no phone call at all," Doyle acknowledged. "Pessimist." He stole back
the sheets, then wagged a remonstratory finger when Bodie made as if to
recapture them. "I'll run a copy, shall I? Then we'll divvy 'em up. Okay?"

Bodie growled his assent.

******

In the hours that followed, Olivia Wingate's phone traffic for the
previous month was analyzed, and with the help of the GPO ("BT, now,"
Doyle reminded Bodie absently. "Prefer GPO," Bodie countered. "Has a
better *ring* to it."), *all* the numbers on their print-out-both those
dialled in and those dialled out-had been identified.

"Her mother, her mechanic, the semi-regular boyfriend, several people
involved in her last assignment-and one Trevor Quayle."

"Unknown entity." Bodie scowled at nothing in particular. "Think Betty can
come through on this?"

"She'll do what she can. You know Betty."

"Used to," Bodie said with a reminiscent leer.

"That old chestnut." Sighing, Doyle pushed his chair up, off its front
legs, and rested against the floor-mounted partition behind him; it
wobbled under his weight. "Told you years ago, I found out the truth about
that."

"According to you." Head bent forward, Bodie observed his partner from
under heavy lids. "She'd never tell *you* the whole story."

"Give it up, mate." Doyle rubbed his eyes with balled-up hands. "You were
a perfect gentleman, from the flowers to the good-night kiss on her
cheek."

"You're always so quick to believe the worst of me," Bodie protested.

The phone rang; Doyle rocked forward and scooped the handset off the
cradle. "Doyle. That's right. You have? Yeah. Yeah." Using his teeth to
uncap his Biro, Doyle began to scribble frenziedly on the back of one of
the print-out pages. "Great. Thanks, love. And you." He raised his brows
triumphantly. "Got 'im."

"Trevor Quayle. He's done time, then?"

"Not exactly. But he was picked up ten years ago for participating in a
ban-the-bomb do; was never officially charged."

"Oh, I see: one of those lucky sods HMG just happens to keep an eye on."

"Lucky for us, yes."

"So who, or what, is the famous Trevor Quayle?"

Doyle beamed. "A journalist." His smile widened at Bodie's look of
perplexity. "He rang Olivia nearly a month ago. They exchanged calls over
a period of three days. *I* think he put her on to something. An inside
tip, maybe?"

"Because he's a journalist?" Answering his own question, Bodie shook his
head vehemently. "Journalists don't like CI5 as a rule. You make it sound
as though they were pals."

"Stranger things have happened. Look at us."

In the midst of licking his lips, Bodie abruptly locked his tongue away,
at that instant too aware of the lingering feel of Doyle's mouth on his.
"You look. D'you have an address?"

Standing, Doyle flapped a hand in the direction of the scribbled-upon
piece of paper. "Right there. What time is it?"

"Past lunch. What rag does this Quayle bloke work for? We can pick up
something on the-"

"He's freelance. I'll try him at home first." While Doyle dialled the
number, Bodie slowly climbed to his own feet. Paperwork took it out of him
more than a day in the trenches-and he had yet to find an opportunity to
act upon Doyle's actions of the morning. A deeply rooted anger flickered
in the core of his gut. He had been made to look a fool, less through
Doyle's lunacy than by his own forbearance of it. *Why* hadn't he stopped
him? What must Doyle-more so, Anson-think of him? For that matter, what
had inspired Doyle to undertake such a prank in the first place?

"No answer," Doyle announced, dropping the handset back onto the phone
with an audible crash.

Reverie shattered, it took a second for Bodie to realize that Doyle was
not answering his unspoken thoughts. " 'S the middle of the day, y'know;
he's hardly likely to be home."

"So we'll canvass his neighbors," Doyle said with a diabolical expression.

"A chance to dig up dirt on someone-your eyes are gleaming, Raymond. You
ready?"

"Yeah. No!" He bustled round Bodie to reach the doorway. "Meet you in the
car park, eh? 'M going to see if Betty's had a chance-"

"Enough said. I'll wait for you-this time."

Doyle blew him a kiss-and disappeared.

"I-am-going-to-kill-him," Bodie resolved.

******

He sat in the car with the driver's window wound partway down despite the
brisk breeze flitting about his neck and face. The engine idle had dropped
to normal operating speed, and the radio played quietly. A thump on the
passenger door proclaimed Doyle's arrival; Bodie had forgotten to unlock
it. He did so now, and shoved the door wide in a single action.

Gratefully scooting inside, Doyle hunched his shoulders and ostentatiously
rubbed his hands together. Ignoring his partner's acquisitive good humor,
Bodie attended to the operation of the vehicle.

"Where're we going?" he asked, signalling a left turn out of the car park.

Doyle told him.

"Of course," Bodie sighed. "Bloody opposite end of the world."

"We'll stop for lunch," Doyle assured him. Out of a pocket he withdrew a
large roll of notes, wrapped round with a wide rubber band. The band went
onto a wrist; then one by one Doyle stretched out the bills so that they
lay flat in a pile across his knees, counting aloud. When he had finished,
he smiled benevolently.

"Beautiful, aren't they?"

According Doyle's riches a slighting glance, Bodie murmured, " 'Bout the
only place pound sterling still means anything these days."

"Eh?"

Freeing his left hand from the gear lever, Bodie briefly touched a finger
to the broken, silver stripe running down the side of a ten-pound note.
"There to assure the backing of the Bank of England."

"Been sticking your nose in those trivia books again?"

"My old granddad was always spouting such rot. About the greatness of this
`green and pleasant land,' his trust in the nation's finances, all
that-when he wasn't arguing a return to monarchic rule, that is."

Nodding sagely, Doyle remarked, "Explains a lot about your bolshie
notions, that does." Nimble fingers rolled the notes into a sausage-like
tube. Retrieving the rubber band from around his wrist, he used it to
secure the roll before it could expand. " 'Course, my mum is no better. In
fact, she's undoubtedly in her element right now."

"The Royal Nuptials, y'mean?" Bodie changed to bottom gear as he brought
the car to a stop at a red light. "Appalling, isn't it? The whole
country's gone bonkers over pudgy, innocent what's-its-name."

"Diana, you oaf. And innocent is right," Doyle vouched sardonically,
"since she never met *you*. Otherwise, she'd no longer be princess-to-be
material."

Eyes on the traffic as he edged the car forward past two or three
late-bolting pedestrians, Bodie announced, "Not my type, is she." He shot
a savage grin Doyle's way. "Anyway, I'm spoken for now."

Tossing his head, Doyle braced himself against the floorboard and raised
his hips. With one thin hand he shoved the bike money into his pocket. It
bulged under the tight press of his jeans, long and round and very
noticeable. "Knew you'd have to bring that up," he said dryly, squirming a
little as he rested back in his seat.

"And why shouldn't I? Isn't every day I get slobbered on in public by my
own partner. Who I thought *knew* better," Bodie added tightly.

" 'S no more than they expect," Doyle said on a gusting sigh. "Wish you'd
seen Anson's expression-it was worth it."

"For you maybe," Bodie argued. "But hardly worth the wholesale destruction
of my reputation, though, was it?"

"As if Anson could have any doubts," Doyle countered. "No one'd ever say
something like that about either of us and believe it."

"No?"

"No! They're just happy to have something to wind us up about. Started
before we ever went up to Leeds, remember? Soon as Cowley'd assigned us
the case."

" 'Course I do. But, Ray-" Bodie cast his partner a doubtful look. "D'you
mean to say you've never heard the rumors?"

"What rumors?"

"About-erm-*us*," he replied baldly.

"Us." A shrewd smile tugged at Doyle's lips. "What about *us*?"

Bodie grimaced. "You really haven't heard?"

"Bodie." The threat underlying the soft voicing of his name was not lost
on Bodie.

"Ah, c'mon, Ray. You have to have heard *something* about it."

"*Bo-die*."

"I can't believe you've really never-" Bodie shrugged.

Inches away, Doyle shifted in his seat so he could stare malignantly at
him. "Go on."

"Well, our birds, for example."

"Yeah?"

"They're part of an elaborate cover."

"Cover?" The rich, ominous thrum in Doyle's voice almost made up for the
incident in the rest room. Too bad for Doyle, Bodie mused, that he was
only relating the facts.

"To conceal the truth-y'know-about *us*."

For a full minute and thirty seconds, Doyle said absolutely nothing. He
continued to stare at Bodie as though his eyes could drill through the
smooth cap of hair, the taut sheath of scalp, and the hard casing of bone
to peer into the very depths of his mind. Suddenly, he slouched back.
"Good try, mate," he said casually, "but it won't work on *me*."

Disinclined to argue, Bodie minded his driving while navigating the car
across the southeast of London-three miles or more. It was Doyle who broke
the silence.

He breathed, "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Deadly."

Sliding deeper into his seat, Doyle watched his partner for a long moment.
"Enough," he said, severely. "If you truly believed that, you wouldn't've
agreed to the op in Leeds."

"Y'mean, I was supposed to tell Cowley we couldn't play poofs because it
would confirm everyone's suspicions?"

Doyle shouted, "*Everyone's* suspicions?!"

"C'mon, Ray!" His earlier, smoldering anger evaporated in the face of his
partner's genuine dismay. "Don't know how you could've missed all the
chat. It's a known fact, for example, that the birds in HQ throw
themselves at you only because they think you want curing."

At that Doyle surrendered a ragged laugh. "You bastard. I *almost*
believed you."

Wincing, Bodie said plainly, "Not lying, mate."

"Go on!" Doyle folded his arms across his chest. "You've had your fun.
Give it up."

They drove quietly for several minutes, Doyle seemingly content to let the
conversation lapse, while Bodie puzzled over how best to convince his
partner of the reality of their situation.

As he switched on the headlights upon entering Blackwall Tunnel, Bodie
launched into speech: "Was nearly four years ago when I first got wind of
it."

"Bodie."

"Overheard a couple of secretaries talking about us. I'd just dropped off
some reports for typing; a page had stuck to the file folder I was still
carrying about, and I had to go back. Heard your name mentioned, so I hung
about for a bit."

"You're *not* serious."

"Keep squealing like that, old son, and you'll have people convinced
you've had the operation, as well. From what I overheard, it was common
knowledge-even then-that you and I have been `more than partners' for
years."

"You *can't* be serious."

"To our mutual detriment, I am."

"All this time-" Giving his lower lip a thorough chewing, Doyle seemed to
need a moment to compose his thoughts. "Why've you never mentioned it
before?"

"Dunno. I mean, I've heard it so many times-"

"*Truthfully? *"

"Truthfully. Reckon I must've thought you already knew. Or, if you didn't,
that you'd only blame it on me once you found out."

"Well, it's not *my* fault!" Doyle exclaimed.

Bodie grinned. " 'Course it's not. Half the secretarial pool can vouch for
that."

"Right. And the other half can vouch for you."

Eyes glinting under arrogantly arched brows, Bodie corrected him,
"Considerably more than half."

"So unless you've been shouting my name at the crucial moment-"

"Unlikely!"

"No, that's right," Doyle said, his sense of humor coming to the fore,
"I've been in the next room often enough to know you encourage your birds
to make all the noise."

Making a mental note that Doyle should pay attention to such details,
Bodie assured him, "Just rumors, Doyle-or they were until today." He
scowled genially. "Still, nothing to worry about, I reckon."

"You're forgetting Murphy yesterday," Doyle said painfully, pulling at the
end of his nose. "Not to mention us spending the last two weeks holding
hands, snogging in public, and generally acting the newlyweds."

"All for HMG," Bodie asserted. "Just keep your lips to yourself from now
on-" He glanced across at Doyle only to find him staring frowningly at the
very mouth he had kissed, "-and we'll be all right. Eh?"

Doyle met his eyes guiltily. Forced to return his attention to the road,
Bodie wondered with panic-and, yes, a twist of anticipation-just what
Doyle was thinking.

"Yeah," Doyle murmured. He turned to the view outside his window: miles of
concrete barricade ahead and behind. It held him as if fascinated. "Yeah,"
he repeated under his breath.

Bodie said nothing.

******

The November sun was westering by the time Bodie and Doyle reached their
destination. They had stopped, only briefly, for a meal; but that delay,
combined with road works and snarled traffic, caused them to arrive much
later than they had intended.

The block of flats in the quiet section of northeast London where Trevor
Quayle lived was modestly fashionable. The gardens were large and
well-kept and the streets boasted a slightly higher percentage of
expensive vehicles than the average.

"Volvo, BMW, Renault-doesn't anyone buy British anymore?" Bodie wondered
aloud.

"Like Jaguar, Bentley, and Rolls Royce?"

"Why not? Probably in the same price range as this lot." He switched the
engine off, having expertly parked the Capri between a Citroen and a Ford
saloon. "Comfortable, this. Do journalists make enough money to buy into
this kind of neighborhood?" Bodie's sweeping gesture included the clean
pavement, recently painted fence, and the pleasant exterior of the
surrounding buildings.

"Wouldn't've thought so; not freelance, anyway."

It came as no great surprise that Trevor Quayle did not reply to the
pressing of his bell. Doyle tried the flat next to Quayle's and was
rewarded by a woman's voice courteously asking his business. He explained
that he was there to meet with Mr. Quayle about a story; might he and his
friend come in out of the cold?

As the door obligingly clicked open, Bodie said, all admiration, "You
could be a dangerous man, if you wanted."

"This is more fun." Doyle pushed the door wide. "Don't have to worry about
being nicked."

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I've spent a night behind bars, remember? Not," Doyle said precisely, "to
my liking."

Inside, the lobby and lift areas evidenced the same care and attention as
the outside of the building. The two agents ascended three floors by way
of the stairs. As they neared Trevor Quayle's door, a woman came out of a
neighboring flat.

"You're the man I spoke with?"

Doyle nodded.

"I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I find it amazing that Trev would
arrange to meet you here at this time of day."

Offering a guileless smile, Doyle said, "It wasn't arranged for this very
moment. Told him I'd come by when I could, that's all."

She nodded understandingly. "In that case, and being that it's Tuesday,
you'll have better luck waiting for him at the Dog's Leg in Camden."

"Camden?" Bodie asked blankly. "Isn't that a long way from home for him?"

The woman eyed him cannily. "He prefers it."

"You're saying he won't be back for a while, then?" Doyle asked.

"Most Tuesdays he comes in about tennish."

"Ah. Well!" Doyle raised his brows and looked to his partner.

Having noted the gold band on the woman's ring finger, Bodie said
politely, "Thanks, missus. Needn't worry; your Trevor'll be safe as houses
with us."

At that the woman broke into a wide smile. She gave each man a
comprehensive once-over. "I've no doubt of that at all."

******

Assumed to be fuming, Doyle said little during the drive to Camden. Bodie
concentrated on the roads, though wayward thoughts skipped across the
surface of his mind like stones slicing across water. The parting
observation made by Quayle's neighbor had not upset him as it had done
Doyle, who seemed convinced there was now something about him that
advertised a grievously false sexual orientation. Bodie had not helped by
mockingly suggesting that Doyle had always exuded a certain exotic
quality-which the uninitiated might mistake for ambivalence-so why should
Trevor's neighbor be any different? For himself-having a thorough
understanding of his true nature-sloughing off the opinions of others was
routine.

It did not make sense that Doyle, who had been sanguine about playing the
gay during their two weeks in Leeds, should now, suddenly, be incapable of
suffering the slights of other people's misconstructions. For one thing,
it was quite unlike Doyle, who flouted convention more often than
not-wearing his hair long at a time when most men had outgrown that 70's
affectation; cladding himself in trousers that emphasized his leanness as
well as his genitals; and sporting three-inch heels on pointed-toed boots
that thrust his hips forward and exaggerated the curve of both buttocks
and thighs-to doubt himself. For another-and perhaps more to the
point-Bodie knew that Doyle had been propositioned by men in the past and
had rejected their attentions with equanimity rather than hostility.
Homosexual sex might not appeal to him; but he had never condemned those
who practiced it.

Yet, Bodie worried that Doyle might brood, and having brooded, might
conclude that his self-image was more important to him than their
partnership. No matter what, Doyle's state of mind must not be allowed to
cause a rift in their partnership. Quite simply, Bodie would not
countenance the single, constant thread of his existence-bloody-minded Ray
Doyle-coming unravelled for so inconsequential a reason.

Lost in his own ruminations, Bodie belatedly noticed that Doyle had thrown
off his air of self-absorption and was now watching the changing scenery
with interest. "There! Bodie, you missed the junction."

Lacking any other reference point, they had petitioned Dispatch to provide
directions to the Dog's Leg. The details had been jotted down on Doyle's
ever-present notepad; he consulted it now for verification. "Back
there-you were supposed to turn back there."

"You might have said earlier," Bodie groused.

"Dispatch came through loud and clear," Doyle said unsympathetically.
"Where were you?" Then: "Turn here," he ordered, overlooking the fact that
Bodie had already activated the turn signal indicator and was even then
wrenching the steering wheel round to negotiate the sharp turn.

"I can find my way from here, Doyle."

"Know you can; just don't want to die of old age first."

The car park outside the Dog's Leg was nearly full. Bodie maneuvered the
Capri into the tight space left between two cars. Released from the
confines of the vehicle, he locked the door and pocketed his keys.

Doyle, coming abreast of him, displayed a 50p piece. "Heads or tails?"

"The barman?"

"Who else?"

"Go on, then."

Doyle sent the coin spinning into the air with the flick of a thumb,
deftly caught it, and slapped it flat on the back of his hand. "Well?" he
asked expectantly.

"Tails."

Doyle removed his hand. Tails it was.

Ordering his features to conceal his pique, Bodie muttered, "At least if
*I* do the bribing, we might get some answers."

A husky chortle from Doyle was carried aloft on the frigid air. "Do tell."

The warmth generated by massed humanity enfolded them at the door. The
evening habitues had begun accumulating already, their numbers evidenced
by the pall of smoke which hung level with the rims of wine glasses
suspended upside-down above the bar.

Forcefully waving his partner off in search of an empty table-if, indeed,
there was one to be found-Bodie loitered at the crowded counter. His wait
was not long, the barman attending to him with a ready but not obsequious
smile.

"Lager for my friend; bitter for me."

The barman's eyes skated in Doyle's direction; Bodie resisted the urge to
join him in watching his partner's progress, knowing that Doyle's wiry
frame would be displayed to excellent effect, even from behind.
*Especially from behind*, Bodie amended.

"We're hoping to meet up with Trevor Quayle. He's expected soon, isn't
he?"

All animation fled the barman's face. "Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't."
He placed Doyle's lager on the counter and began to fill Bodie's glass.

Allowing himself a wry smile, Bodie held up a ten-pound note between thumb
and forefinger. "So, is he, or isn't he?" There was a strand of steel in
Bodie's voice that was not missed by the other man.

"Any minute now." The barman set the bitter next to the lager and availed
himself of the note; there was no change forthcoming.

"I'll be...out of sorts if we miss him."

"Not to worry, guv."

"No, I won't. Only-" Counterfeit friendliness twinkled in Bodie's eyes.
"My friend is very tight-fisted-and that's *his* tenner."

Leaving the barman to frown mutely to himself, Bodie took up the two
glasses and strode into the crowd. He found Doyle at a far-flung table
that yet provided a mostly clear view of the door. Doyle greeted him with
a smile that was a trifle frayed about the edges.

"Did he bite?" Doyle asked, accepting his glass.

"Pretended to. I don't think he has any intention of asking Quayle to
speak with us."

"Which means he took your money."

"Naturally."

Offering his partner a silent toast, Doyle downed a healthy swallow of
lager, his Adam's apple bobbing as his throat worked.

"So this is what a gay pub is like," he murmured, swabbing his upper lip
with the tip of his tongue.

"May as well get used to it," Bodie advised. He grinned sharkishly. "After
that stunt this morning."

Overlooking Bodie's provocation, Doyle said mildly, "Not that different
from any other pub on a Tuesday evening. Just a bunch of blokes standing
round, watching the telly, chatting up the local talent."

"Which is all male."

"Hm." Doyle ran a hand through his hair. "About this morning-"

"Save it. I think our man may have arrived."

"Him? Doesn't look promising." Doyle's eyes darkened, then narrowed. "Your
helpful barman appears to be giving the bloke an earful."

"Looks that way to me, too."

"Do we intercept?"

"Not yet. Ah- He's turned this way."

"And-unless I'm mistaken-he seems to know us."

The two agents exchanged baffled glances. "He does, doesn't he?" Bodie
drawled. He deliberately sat back in his chair and waited while the man
they assumed to be Trevor Quayle collected a draught before working his
way back to their table.

"Bodie and Doyle," he said affably. "Never thought to see the pair of you
brazen it out like this."

Standing up, Bodie met the other man's hand with his own. He snagged a
chair from a just-vacated table and pushed it within reach. "Trevor
Quayle?"

"None other."

Eyeing him with wary fascination, Doyle asked, "Have we been introduced?"

"You know we haven't," Quayle said softly. He was solidly built, blond,
and nearing fifty. Metal-framed glasses circled hazel eyes. His clothing
was comfortable, yet stylish. The man was content with his lot in the
world, and it showed. "Not formally, anyway."

Rather than ask another question, Doyle raised his glass to his lips and
watched Quayle over the rim.

Smiling inwardly, Bodie recognized his partner's discomfiture. On a guess,
he would say Doyle was a little put off by Trevor Quayle.

"CI5 is one of my beats," Quayle explained cheerfully. "I keep track of
you and your lot."

"Do you?"

"Have done for a long time now. Your George Cowley is, by and large, a
sensible man. I rather admire him."

"Shall we pass that along to Mr. Cowley?" Doyle asked cordially.

"Do as you like." Quayle fixed his gaze on Doyle's face. "Expect this must
be something of a treat for you, eh? Being here."

"Meaning?"

Quayle was unfazed by the edge in Bodie's voice. "Relax, son. We're all
friends at the Dog's Leg. If I intended to throw you to the wolves,
you'd've felt their teeth long ago."

"You think we're gay," Doyle said expressionlessly.

"I've been watching you two off and on for over a year: *Think* doesn't
enter into it."

"You're mistaken," Bodie said lightly.

"Am I? I have pictures, y'know? Diaries tracking your activities. In a
three-week period last March, you slept round at Doyle's flat twice; he
stayed overnight in your flat three nights running. On several occasions
following such interludes, a change of clothing was evident the next
morning. I have snaps of you touching, embracing, and staring meaningfully
into each other's eyes."

An inelegant laugh erupted from Doyle's lips. "You're wrong."

"I don't think so," Quayle said pityingly. "But you needn't worry, okay?"

"Why not?" Bodie asked with genuine curiosity. "If you don't mean to use
any of this against us?"

"Because you don't abuse your power. Because I think more harm than good
would result from exposing you. Because I think the need for a strong
defense against internal threats is necessary, however unwholesome."

"Then why the observation logs, the snaps, all that?"

"In case you slip up," Quayle replied simply. He raised his glass and
studied the head on his beer.

Bodie and Doyle watched him in silence.

"I've always wondered," the journalist remarked as he rotated the glass in
his hands, "if George Cowley is gay, too? Is that why he protects you?"

Containing his amusement with some difficulty, Bodie said, "I've never
thought to ask. Perhaps you might look into that, Ray?"

Collecting empty glasses, Doyle jumped to his feet. "Oh, I shall. The same
again, everyone?" He waited scarcely long enough for the two men to
respond: Quayle shook his head; Bodie gave him a quick nod.

As Doyle strode toward the bar, Quayle looked after him with open
admiration. "As beautiful as he is lethal."

"Isn't he just," Bodie agreed with a dark smile. "D'you have a fella,
then?"

"I do actually," Quayle said, a note of pride in his voice. "His name's
Charles York. He's an actor."

Bodie blinked. "I've heard of him. Have you known each other long?"

"We've been together fifteen years now."

"That's a little...unusual, isn't it?" Bodie asked delicately.

"For queers, or men in general?"

"In general," Bodie said, unrepentant.

"It's been eight years for you and Doyle." Quayle glanced toward the bar.
Doyle was on his way back, his and Bodie's drinks balanced in either hand.
"And partners all that time. That's even more unusual, wouldn't you
agree?"

"What's unusual?" Doyle asked, lithely bending to set the freshened
drinks, unspilled, onto the table.

"You and Bodie being together so long."

Bodie reached into his pocket, "What do I owe you?"

Wiping his hands on his thighs, Doyle sat down. "Nothing. Friend of yours
owed you some money."

Bodie rolled his eyes, imagining the conversation that must have taken
place between Doyle and the barman. "At that rate, we should be able to
sink another four rounds before we're through."

"Easily."

Absorbing their repartee with avuncular approval, Quayle asked, "So why
did you want to see me?"

"We're hoping you can help us."

"Me? What sort of-" Quayle's eyes suddenly widened, becoming very large
behind thick lenses. "My God, I should have known: Olivia."

"We've been assigned to her case."

Quayle appeared not to have heard Doyle's explanation; he was staring,
stricken, into space. "She's dead, isn't she?"

"Why should you think that?" Bodie asked sharply.

"Oh, God," Quayle whispered.

"She isn't dead, Trevor." Bodie reached out and grabbed the journalist's
forearm. "I swear to you."

Quayle's eyes dropped to Bodie's hand. "Then why didn't she tell me you'd
be coming round? Why'd you wait for me *here*?" He jerked free of Bodie's
grip.

"She's in a coma." Doyle watched the other man closely, waiting for his
response. "Tell us what she was working on. We'd very much like to find
the people responsible."

Lifting a hand to his face, Quayle shoved trembling fingers beneath the
metal-framed glasses. He gave his eyes a fierce rubbing. "The *people*
responsible," he muttered. "How was she injured?"

"Dog attacked her," Bodie said frankly. "What d'you know about this,
Trevor?"

"Where did it happen?" Quayle covered his mouth with his hand. "When?"

"You tell us," Doyle insisted.

Eyes raised toward the ceiling, Quayle breathed, "Chelsea. It happened in
Chelsea, didn't it?"

"That's right," Bodie said matter-of-factly. "Night before last. Listen,
Quayle: We're working blind here. We don't know what to look for, and
Olivia could be in danger as a result."

The journalist stood up, so brusquely his chair tumbled over behind him.
The dramatic clatter-and the hush that followed-clearly did not register
on him. "Not here," he mumbled. "My place-"

"We know where it is." Doyle gulped down the remainder of his drink.
"We'll follow you."

"Yes." Quayle cast about, as though uncertain what he ought to do. "Yes."
Then he lurched forward and half-ran toward the door, a sound like a
muffled moan escaping him before he reached the end of the bar.

Faintly shaken despite himself, Bodie concealed his uneasiness with an
outward display of nonchalance. Ignoring curious eyes, he rose sedately,
righted Quayle's chair, then cut through the crowd with Doyle at his back.
At the bar he paused just long enough to hold out a hand, waiting with
labored patience until the barman filled his palm with the change owed
from his ten.

Outside, Trevor Quayle was nowhere to be seen.

"Bother you, what he said?" Bodie asked as he and Doyle strode across the
misty car park.

"About us? Nah."

Bodie wondered which route Quayle would take. "Acted awfully worried."

"Wasn't *worried*," Doyle insisted vehemently.

"Hm? Oh- Not you. Quayle."

"Oh. Him. He was. Very. More than worried, I thought."

"Maybe it was the violent look that came into your eyes when he said
you're queer," Bodie speculated.

"We. He said *we're* queer."

"Guilt by association."

"That's what I get for being seen with you, y'mean?"

Bodie took out his keys and unlocked the passenger door. As Doyle slid
inside, Bodie jogged round the bonnet. He found the driver's door open and
waiting for him. "Seemed pretty certain about us, didn't he?"

"Maybe he was about *you*."

It was time, Bodie decided, to let the badinage drop. With a twist of the
ignition key, the engine started. Bodie switched on the windscreen wipers,
the headlights, and, a second later, the heater. As semi-warm air flooded
the passenger compartment, he asked, "So what d'you reckon he was so
worried about, then?"

"He wasn't worried, Bodie," Doyle said. "He was shit-scared."

******

Driving back through the night to the outer reaches of northern London,
Bodie concentrated on increasingly wet roads and encroaching fog: The
weather forecast had proven accurate. For the most part, Doyle remained
cocooned in his own thoughts, his occasional observations random and of
purely passing interest.

"Y'know," he announced suddenly, as Bodie turned the Capri into Quayle's
lane, "we *have* been in each other's pockets lately."

"Nothing new about that," Bodie did not want to know where this might be
leading.

"Hell, I've broken dates to be with you!"

Studiously flippant, Bodie asked, "And why not? I'm more fun than most of
your dates-*and* better looking."

A trace of white betrayed Doyle's smile. "There is that."

A moment passed and Bodie began to relax.

"D'you remember Pamela?"

The question was so diverting, Bodie almost missed a conveniently placed
parking space. "My memory still goes back a couple of months, yeah."

"You begged me to take her off your hands because you'd
discovered-what's-its-name: Brid- Brin-"

"Brittany?"

"Right. Who had bristols out to here-"

"But was an error in judgment as I recall."

"Because she failed to mention her husband," Doyle said, acidly
sympathetic.

"Who was eight feet tall if he was an inch."

"With steel teeth."

"Fists like ham hocks."

"And an ugly disposition."

Bodie drew up the hand-brake and cut the engine. "Would've killed me if
you hadn't stepped in."

Extricating himself from the car, Doyle alighted on the pavement. He
exclaimed softly, "I'd forgotten that bit!"

"Had you? Thought that's what all this must be building up to. Saved my
life, you did."

"Only because you're my partner. Broke Pamela's heart, you lout."

"Which made her all the more forthcoming for you," Bodie said
meaningfully. "What're you complaining about?"

"She wasn't forthcoming, mate. Just wanted a shoulder to cry on."

"You saying the famous Doyle charm had a crisis of persuasion?" Bodie
joined his partner in the street. They walked toward the front of Quayle's
block of flats, Doyle loose-limbed in the gathering cold, Bodie stiff
under his jacket. For all that the night was young, it was already
uncomfortably brisk.

"Didn't even try. That night I took her straight home, then went round to
Brittany's place to give you a proper talking to. *That's* how I happened
to be there when her husband arrived."

"Is that why?" Bodie pondered, honestly surprised. "Never thought to ask,
I reckon."

"That's because Cowley suspended you for two days for brawling, and sent
me to Glasgow for two *weeks*. By the time I got back, you'd taken up with
Cheryl-or was it Sharon?"

Amused, Bodie trawled his brain. "Sheila." He hesitated, reconsidering.
"Or was it Sinead?"

Just outside the glass double doors, Doyle searched the tenant list for
Quayle's bell. Just as he found it, a woman appeared in the front lobby,
her face distorted: eyes distended, mouth wide open. She wrung the door
handle and burst out, stumbling in her haste. Reflexively, Bodie threw out
a hand to steady her.

"Oh, no," she moaned. "Oh, no!"

"What is it?" he asked tersely.

"It's too- I can't-"

Doyle slipped past her and pounded up the stairs, Bodie close on his
heels. Off the third floor landing a small crowd was gathered. *Quayle's
flat! * Bodie realized with a sinking sensation. Shouldering his way
through the milling, muttering group, Bodie took his weapon in hand and
held it unseen under his jacket.

The door to the flat stood half open. Quayle himself lay on the floor,
body twisted like a rag doll, legs askew, arms flung wide. Scarlet-great
obscene splashes of it-drenched his clothing and trickled wetly down the
door and nearest wall.

Doyle crisply ordered the morbidly entranced gathering to move aside. The
authority in his voice garnered instant obedience, though they yielded
only a few inches. While Bodie stepped over the corpse-there was no doubt
in his mind that Trevor Quayle was all too dead-his partner squatted down
beside the journalist and commenced a hurried assessment of vital signs.

The inside of Quayle's flat appeared untouched. From foyer to kitchen,
downstairs toilet to living room, Bodie found nothing but the normal
clutter of day-to-day living. In the upstairs bathroom, however, the
window gaped open, buttercup yellow curtains and pristinely white nets
buffeted by a cutting breeze. Crouched low, Bodie locked his firing hand
in place, swiftly appraising his surroundings. A powerful gust of air sent
the curtains flapping; unconsciously, he rocked back on his heels. The
fresh breeze stung his eyes and chilled him to the bone.

Features fixed in a hard mask, he began to examine the window casement and
its assorted furnishings while cautiously drawing nearer. There was no
sign of breakage: The curving latch and its lockpiece gleamed brassily;
the painted smoothness of the sill was unmarred; the curtains and nets
betrayed no rents or soiling. Save that this was November-and an unusually
cold one at that-Bodie might have argued that Trevor Quayle had chosen to
give the small room an airing. It was not impossible-but Bodie found the
likelihood remote.

With deliberate steps, he covered the distance remaining, his imagination
prickling as he approached the seemingly maw-like opening. Teeth clenched,
mouth compressed, Bodie bent forward to peer out.

It appeared with explosive suddenness. Yawning blackness was eclipsed by
something huge and silver. Sharp, curving teeth cut through the air. Hot
breath seared Bodie's face. With no more than a splintered second to throw
himself clear, Bodie snapped off a round and heaved himself into a
backwards-somersault. Fetching up violently against the base of the
toilet, he righted himself at once, heedless of the sparkles that
half-blinded him.

The window was empty.

Bodie lurched to his feet, ignoring the fear curled in the pit of his
belly.

"Bodie!"

Heart in his throat, Bodie threw out a hand to stay his partner at the
door. Three steps later he stood at the window, eyes quartering the
darkness in the street directly below. It ought to have been there-the
silver coat would be visible even in this murky pitch. It *must*-

Movement, furtive and sleek in the shadows at the end of the pavement,
attracted his attention: It *couldn't* be there; he had heard the impact
of lead with soft tissue-a fall from this height, with a bullet wound-
large, round eyes the color of moonlight met his; a second later, the
creature melted into the night. What Bodie had seen, or only thought he
had seen, had disappeared.

A quick survey of the outside of the building only heightened Bodie's
sense of frustration. Fifteen feet to his right, a fire-escape zig-zagged
from just below the bedroom window to the ground. Twelve feet to the left
and nine feet down, a balcony overlooked the street from the lounge. Here-
*Here, * five feet beneath the bathroom window, there was only a ledge, no
more than four inches wide.

"Right about now, someone somewhere will have the unpleasant surprise of a
spent bullet landing on their unlucky head," Doyle commented critically.

Holstering his revolver, Bodie swung round to face his partner. "Untrue.
That bullet struck home."

Scrubbing at a bloodied hand with his handkerchief, Doyle said, "On the
pavement below?" He stepped up to the window and craned his neck for a
better look.

"No." A shrug rolled off Bodie's shoulders. "Should've been. Saw it across
the street, actually. It's long gone now."

"Across the street?" Doyle frowned. "Walking? After a fall like that?"

Bodie swallowed his irritation before it could manifest itself on his
tongue. "Have you reported in yet?"

"Spoke with Father. Forensics, a meat cart, and himself are on their way.
What did you shoot at?"

Doyle's leaps of intuition never failed to impress Bodie; for some reason
his own mind did not work that way. "A bloody great dog." He waited for
disbelieving laughter.

Doyle bent out the window, confirming his first impressions of the layout
of the building's exterior. "Trick dog, d'you think?" He was not laughing.

Suffering a rush of unalloyed affection at this unquestioning acceptance
in the face of gross improbability, Bodie shook his head. "Couldn't say.
But it *was* there."

"Yeah," Doyle murmured. "I *heard* it." He gestured with the corner of his
mouth toward the front of the flat. "Best get back to Quayle. The
neighbors are a mite alarmed."

"He *is* dead?"

"As a doornail."

******

The hands on Bodie's watch were ticking with militaristic precision toward
nine sharp as he and Doyle passed through the main, glazed doors of HQ, it
the only structure sited on the street with lights blazing bright on all
floors. In the intervening hours they had briefed Cowley on Trevor
Quayle's involvement in their investigation of Olivia Wingate's assault,
and the progress-or lack of same-they had made in her case.

Having established his authority to the police who had responded to the
disturbance, Cowley had listened unperturbed in the privacy of Quayle's
bedroom to Bodie's lucid and unemotional recital of the evening's events,
scarcely altering expression when he had come to the part about the animal
at the window. After succinctly instructing them both to commit their
reports to paper in the approved fashion, Cowley had turned his attention
to overseeing the forensics crew. The small swarm of technicians-no more
than five strong-were by then flitting from one spot of Quayle's flat to
another, reminding Bodie of nothing so much as bees in a hive, each person
performing his given task with insect-like devotion to duty. Once
photographs of the victim had been taken, measurements recorded, and
observations detailed into tiny, hand-held tape recorders, Quayle's body
had been removed.

Bodie and Doyle had aided in the rifling of the journalist's personal
effects-though it had been made very clear very soon that the flat was
shared by a second man. *Charles York, * Bodie had remembered while
searching through the drawers of a large, steel-trimmed desk. A large
photo of the actor-angled and lit so that his craggy features were
presented to their best advantage-occupied one corner of the brushed metal
surface; a little to one side stood a framed informal snap of York and
Quayle together, apparently taken at a party. Besuited and boutonniered,
they smiled into the camera, two men as perfectly at ease in each other's
company as-

*As me and Ray. * The thought had made Bodie smile.

Just then Doyle had interrupted his musings, his tone aggrieved. "There's
nothing here," he had said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But they
*must've* had *something*! Some record of what was going on."

"They? Meaning Quayle and Livi?"

Doyle had shoved his hands into his back pockets. "Who else? He was a
reporter; he must've taken some notes. Livi's an agent; she'd've jotted
down her suspicions." Slowly swivelling round, Doyle had scoured the room
through tired eyes. "Quayle was freelance: He had nowhere else to keep his
materials, but here. Yes?"

"Nowhere at all."

The dearth of information had plagued them while they took reports from
the neighbors, engaged in a final, unproductive consultation with
forensics, and all during the drive back to HQ. Doyle had grown gloomily
abstracted; he seemed to rub incessantly at his hands, though Trevor
Quayle's blood had been washed down the kitchen drain hours before.

Resigned to checking the day's accumulation heaped on their shared desk
before calling it a night, neither man was entirely surprised upon
entering their cubicle to find an oversize interoffice envelope-their
names inked across the top-set squarely on the felt blotter.

Doyle pointed his hand down at it, fingers and thumb forming the familiar
configuration of a gun; the finger turned, targeting Bodie.

Brows disdainfully arched, Bodie half-smiled at the showy gesture which
invited him to go first. He did so, gingerly unwinding the thick strand of
thread that sealed the envelope. Inside was a manila file folder,
discouragingly thin-and a scrawled message on a scrap of paper. Bodie
pulled the half-sheet out and gave it a quick scan. " 'S from Roberts:
Says one of the motor pool crew found the enclosed under the driver's seat
in Olivia's car-which was recovered early this afternoon. There's an
address, too. According to Roberts, the file was bunged into this
envelope, untouched. Oh, and there's a note for you, Ray."

"Yeah?"

"Your car'll be ready tomorrow after noon."

"And not before bloody time!"

"Just remember who's been playing your chauffeur, eh?" Bodie peered down
into the envelope. " 'S not much."

"D'you want to go over it here-or at my place while we eat?"

Revitalized by the prospect of food, Bodie said intently, "Your place? You
cooking?"

"No, and it's your turn to pay."

Bodie made a clucking sound. "Not like you to eat out so much. All that
processed food." He waved a hand in the direction of Doyle's trouser
pocket, indicating the bulge of bills prominently outlined by denim. "Keep
it up and you'll be dipping into your savings next."

"Not likely. But I am hungry. How about about a vindaloo?"

"You're making my mouth water. Let's go."

******

"Articles clipped from the papers-each one reporting the death of a
Minister of Parliament-the earliest going back about ten years; ten days
worth of comings and goings all neatly timed and dated, but with no names,
no addresses! What was Olivia playing at?" Frustrated, Bodie slapped the
meager sheaf of data onto the sofa and hauled himself upright. Scooping up
two paper plates and four empty paper cartons, he stalked into Doyle's
kitchen. There, he binned the remains of their dinner then rummaged in the
refrigerator for two cans of beer. Plodding back to the lounge, he
continued, "It's bloody irri-" 

On the phone, the receiver pressed tightly to his ear, Doyle was
frantically gesturing at him to lower the volume of his complaint. More
amused than threatened by Doyle's redoubtable scowl, Bodie pretended to
zip his lip and pitched a can into Doyle's free hand.

"Yeah, thanks. We'll check back in the morning."

"Olivia?" Bodie asked, as Doyle cradled the receiver.

"Slight improvement; nothing to get optimistic over."

Doyle, Bodie decided, was very tired. His curls, boisterous as ever, yet
lay a little more heavily than usual upon his high forehead, forming long,
almost-ringlets down the back of his neck. Thwarted green eyes were deeply
set and surrounded with grey-tinged skin; the sculpted mouth was clamped
shut and presently suffering bedevilment at the tip of Doyle's thumb.

"Those MPs-the ones in the clippings-" Bodie flopped onto the sofa a few
feet from his partner. A cant of the head directed Doyle's attention to
the photocopies fanned out on the middle cushion between them. "Probably
the same ones she ordered full reports on, hm?"

"Very likely." Revolving the chilled can between both hands, Doyle molded
his spine to the sofa back. "Nobody saw a thing at Quayle's flat. Heard
the ruckus going on inside; his shouts; footsteps running toward the door.
The noise stopped for a few seconds, the door opened, and he fell
out-blood spurting everywhere from the gash in his throat."

"Carotid. Very messy."

"He tried to speak, according to the woman next door. He couldn't, of
course-and in the next second or two, he was dead."

"Don't suppose she could read lips?"

Doyle took a sip then rested the can on his chest. "She showed me the way
he worked his mouth." He rolled his head toward Bodie. "Like this."

Full lips essayed a half-pucker-not quite the shape used to form an
"o"-closed, and opened again. Minutely studying the movement of Doyle's
mouth, Bodie unthinkingly mimicked him. His concentration disintegrated
when he realized they were inadvertently blowing each other air-kisses.

"What sound is that, then?" Bodie laughed. "Uhh? Muh? I don't know!"

"She said his mouth was closed to start." Doyle tried it again himself.
"Muh...buh...fuh."

"Doesn't make the same shape," Bodie criticized.

"You do it, then," Doyle retorted.

"Uhh, tuh, luh, wuh-"

"That's it! Do that one again."

"Which one?"

"Wuh. See it? Wuh. That's the first sound. The second caused his mouth to
close. Wuh*b*, wuh*m*."

"Close, then open again."

"Wuhb*a*, wuhm*a*?"

"Wuhba." Bodie broke into a grin. "Just listen to us."

"Looks right," Doyle remarked encouragingly, some of the weariness in his
face giving way to amusement. "Just doesn't mean anything. Try it again."

"Wuhma. Wuuuhmaa." Doyle's gaze lingered on his mouth, preoccupation
replacing mirth. Unsettled, Bodie took up his can and hid behind a long,
long drink.

"Wuuhmaa. Woman?" Doyle asked uncertainly.

"A woman tore out Quayle's throat? A real bitch, eh?"

"What's a bitch but a woman dog?" Doyle asked reasonably.

Bodie stared at him. In an instant he was transported back to Quayle's
flat. The darkened window; the stirring curtains; the- "And maybe Quayle
was saying `Why me?' " he said callously. "Try it. That works, too-sort
of."

Doyle was not deceived. "You turned an interesting shade of grey just now
when I said the word `dog.' What *exactly* did you see, Bodie?" Doyle
asked, his voice as soft as gossamer.

"I told you," he said stiffly. "Just a dog."

" `A bloody great dog,' if I recall correctly. What kind of dog was it?
Color, breed? Distinguishing characteristics?"

Once more taking refuge in his drink, Bodie thought about the monstrous
thing that had haunted the dusty corners of his thoughts throughout the
evening. "Was silver," he replied slowly. "Large eyes, long nose-"

"Muzzle."

Doyle's soft interjection scarcely penetrated. "Narrow body, long legs.
*Big* teeth. Huge. It was-" Coming back to himself all at once, Bodie said
contentiously, "It was there and gone so fast, I didn't have a chance to
jot down details, now did I?"

"And you shot it?"

"Heard the impact of the bullet. You know the sound that makes."

A flicker of Doyle's eyes conceded this shared knowledge. "At that range,
with that size caliber-it ought to've been dead."

"The thought has crossed my mind, Doyle."

"But you saw it across the street, in the shadows, only seconds later?"

Unthinkingly working his jaws, Bodie defended himself, "I didn't imagine
it."

Sighing softly, Doyle rolled the half-full can of beer between his hands.
"You saw Cowley's expression after he'd had a look at that ledge." One
hand upraised to preclude argument, Doyle pulled himself out of the
too-loving embrace of the sofa, chugged down the last of his beer, and
planted the empty container on the coffee table. "Nothing else we can do
tonight." Cocking his head, he lifted his brows questioningly. "You
staying here?"

"I-" The question brought Bodie up sharp. The hour *was* late, nearly one
by his watch. If he took Doyle up on his offer, he could whittle extra
minutes of sleep out of the night. Yet, alarm bells sounded in his head
and the events of the day flashed before him: *Doyle, teasing him in the
rest room; kissing him-lips warm, yielding; in the Dog's Leg, Doyle
glaring uneasily at the journalist after the man blandly assumed that he
and Doyle were lovers-* For reasons left best unexplained, even to
himself, Bodie chose to decline. "Nah. Got a few things yet to do." He
stood all at once, avoiding Doyle's eyes.

It was Doyle who collected his jacket, watching him, Bodie thought, more
intently than he ought. But all Doyle said was, "Righto." Then he
stretched and twisted, cracking his knuckles high overhead. "What time
tomorrow?"

"Seven suit you?"

Doyle groaned.

"Seven it is, then. 'Night, Ray."

"Yeah. See you, mate." The weight of Doyle's gaze remained heavy on
Bodie's back until the front door closed, with a solid *ka-chunk*, between
them.

Outside, the glacial breeze augured the coming of winter. Bodie huddled in
the shelter of his jacket, hands thrust into the depths of his pockets.
His footsteps, clipped and unfaltering, echoed alone in the canyon formed
by concrete, stone, and brick as he strode toward his car.

He had been forced to park at the bottom of the street, around the corner.
Unhappily watching his breath frost before him, and contemplating the
distance yet to go, Bodie hurried his pace.

Behind him, a leaf, dry and crisp, skittered across the pavement. At this
time of night, all sorts of sounds, imperceptible in daylight, were made
definitively clear. Almost rhythmic, it clicked along in his wake. Struck
with a sudden, acute sense of foreboding, Bodie paused and swung around:
nothing. Not another soul nor creature walked the pavement with him. He
was being a fool.

Well used to the mantle of darkness and comfortable with it, Bodie set out
again, remaining alert but obstinately relaxed. He allowed his thoughts to
turn to the day almost ended-a more pleasurable, yet ultimately
disconcerting occupation overall. The case and all it encompassed should
have stood at the forefront of his mind-but it was Doyle who held center
stage. Today, they had transgressed an invisible barrier, however
jokingly; a barrier, Bodie feared, that would be transgressed in all
seriousness if they did not think this all the way through, he and Doyle.

Or was it only Bodie who believed that?

In the last two weeks things *had* changed between them. Living the parts
of two men in love had come remarkably easy to them-for they were easy
with each other. Those first days in Leeds had been full of "discussions"
over the "quibbly" things: the frequency and width of opened windows;
blanket count and size, and how they might be utilized amicably; and
perhaps of utmost importance, the arrangement of their persons in the bed
they must sleep in together.

Eight days had passed before they had wakened in the middle of the night
firmly ensconced in each other's arms-this not a side-effect of their
role-playing Bodie had envisioned. A slew of jokes had circumvented the
possibility of tension, allowing them to carry on as though nothing had
happened. And beyond a little prolonged body contact, in actuality nothing
had done. Two days later, however, Bodie had been rescued from a nightmare
by a quieting, lingering touch on his shoulder. No questions had been
asked, no explanations offered; grumbling about the cold, Doyle had inched
nearer until they had lain back to back-and in that manner they had fallen
asleep once more.

This new willingness to touch-and be touched-on Doyle's part had caused
Bodie some consternation at first. In no time at all, however, he had come
to welcome those moments when Doyle would gravitate to his warmth-both
during the day in view of those who were meant to see them as lovers, and
at night, when the charade was unnecessary. *Doyle, wrestling with him for
a fair share of the bedclothes, collapsing across Bodie's chest exhausted
with laughter-and remaining there to fall asleep; Doyle, overseeing
Bodie's turn at making dinner, chin on Bodie's shoulder, an arm slung
casually round his waist, making rude comments about Bodie's efforts;
Doyle, interrupting Bodie's leisurely bath purportedly to review their
progress on the case, and amid their conversation, cheekily-and quite
openly-taking inventory of Bodie's body from the hair on his head to the
nails on his toes, and missing nothing in between. *

Breaking free of his reminiscences, Bodie spied the silver Capri, pools of
mist standing on its gleaming surface. Three steps later, he was unlocking
the door, a fresh gust of wind swirling around him. It lifted the hair off
the back of his neck, and somewhere, not far away, sent a small gathering
of leaves scraping across the road.

Though Bodie could not say why, that sound, so commonplace since the
season had stripped all the trees bare, triggered a shiver that scurried
down his spine like a small animal bolting for safety. It was with a sense
of unwarranted relief that he pulled the door closed against the elements
and simultaneously keyed the ignition. The headlights cut a swath through
the darkness and held it at bay, reassuringly displaying nothing in their
glare but idle vehicles and damp streets.

During the twenty-minute drive to his flat, Bodie let his mind wander once
more. This time it strayed-with some purpose-to Trevor Quayle who would
lie on a morgue table tonight-and to Charles York, his lover, who would
sleep alone.

In his own bed nearly half an hour later, Bodie was on the brink of
unconsciousness when a single, unwanted thought jarred him fully awake:
After two weeks of steady rain across the length and breadth of England,
*everything* was sodden-sodden, and in some cases, more than
half-decomposed.

If not the dry dance of leaves, *what* then had he heard?

******

*Wednesday*

"Had a dream last night," Doyle announced.

"Lucky for you."

"You were in it. Fancy hearing about it?"

"No."

"Mr. Grumpy. Didn't you get any sleep last night, then?"

Bodie cast a hooded, faintly threatening look Doyle's way. "As a matter of
fact, no. Any other questions?"

"Ooh, we are out of sorts."

"We are; so naff off, will you?"

The ensuing silence was nearly sliceable. Bodie did not apologize. The
memory of Doyle sharing aloud an alleged dream in the rest room-only for a
laugh at Bodie's expense-yet stung.

"Might be important," Doyle argued off-handedly. "Some people think the
subconscious mind can provide insight that would escape the waking one."

Stopped at a light, Bodie allowed himself the brief luxury of closing his
eyes. "I'll just bet."

"You want to hear it then?"

The light turned from yellow to green. A heavy fog dulled the normally
bright colors. Bodie's fingers beat a soft tattoo on the steering wheel as
he urged the car forward. "And if I don't, you'll tell everyone in the
rest room?"

Rolling his shoulders unconcernedly, Doyle countered, "You got your own
back, mate." He chortled huskily. "Ten and a half, indeed!"

*And he takes every inch. * Inwardly, Bodie squirmed. "Go on, then."

"Sure?"

"*Doyle. *"

"Well- We were in Quayle's flat. Quayle was on the floor, dead, just like
we found him-then Charles York came in, saying in his deep, booming voice,
`Wuuhmaa, wuuhmaa.' "

A grin began to creep across Bodie's face.

"You pulled out your gun and moved toward the window. And then-" Doyle
broke off, overtaken by a huge yawn.

"I married him, and we lived happily ever after?" Bodie asked drolly.

"No, you fool, you married *me*, and *we* lived happily ever after." Doyle
beamed at him.

"Not bloody likely, mate; I know you. So what really happened-or dare I
ask?"

Slumped back in his seat, Doyle folded one leg loosely over the other. He
took care to shift the now-familiar wad of notes in his pocket lest it
present a hazard to his groin. "*Quayle* started to say the same thing:
`wuuhmaa.' "

"Even though he was dead?"

"Even though. You and I made a strategic retreat toward the door. Not a
moment too soon: A huge dog-about the size of the QE2-leapt inside through
the window." Doyle's attention shifted to the unlit shops lining King's
Road.

"And?"

"And-it ate them both."

"What about you and me?"

"Don't know- I woke up."

"Sensible of you."

Amidst the pre-dawn murk, Bodie brought the car to a halt, the engine left
running.

"Is this the address?" Doyle asked.

"There." Bodie nodded toward the opposite side of the street.

"Expensive." Doyle twisted in his seat, craning a little to obtain a
better view.

"Classy. It narrows things down a bit, anyway."

"To this street and the next ones down and up, you mean. Just because
Olivia's car was parked here doesn't mean she was watching the place
across the road."

"True. You realize, don't you, that we're only four roads away from the
public loo?"

"Where she was found."

"Yeah."

Bodie let in the clutch and slowly drove back to King's Road. A grey pall
extended from sky to land. In those dramatic moments between the advent of
dawn and the ascendancy of light-filtered though it was-Bodie navigated
the already-busy streets of London. As he nosed the car into a space in
the CI5 car park, he glanced across at his long-silent partner. Not much
to his surprise, he discovered that Doyle had fallen asleep. *Must've been
some dream, * Bodie reckoned.

He took a moment to watch him, taking note not for the first time of
Doyle's unusual features: well-shaped, angular brows over slanted, thickly
lashed eyes, distinctively wide-spaced; a mouth as full or fuller than
those belonging to most of the women Bodie knew; nose straight and nicely
formed; squared-off chin in a rounded face; and his hair-too long, too
curly, but luxuriantly brown with a hint of red-somehow quintessentially
Doyle. Taken in combination, these attributes constituted a most unusual
whole-and that whole, Bodie thought fairly, wholly appealed.

He extended a finger and flipped it, not ungently, under Doyle's nose.
"Wakey, wakey, sunshine. Things to do, people to talk to."

"Uh." Lifting his head away from the neck rest with an effort, Doyle shot
a muzzy look toward his partner. He sniffed and rubbed his nose, his face
hideously contorted as a yawn forced his jaws apart. "We're here?"

"We're always *here*, no matter where we are," Bodie replied helpfully. At
Doyle's unfocussed glower, he only smiled sweetly. "But if you mean HQ,
yes. C'mon, mate. Shift your arse." He gave Doyle a playful shove that
nearly had him, in his diminished condition and with the passenger door by
then half open, sprawled upon the concrete. Doyle just managed to save
himself.

Interrupting the resultant barrage of uncomplimentary references to his
heritage, his personal failings, and his bleak future, Bodie asked
considerately, "Rough night?"

"I'll let you know when I wake up," muttered Doyle.

******

Leaning back in his chair-propped as usual at a precarious angle against
the partition that delimited their cubicle-Doyle held a half-empty beaker
of steaming tea between his hands, having left the scattering of
newspapers, message slips, and a large, sealed manila envelope which had
been awaiting them on their desk, for Bodie to sift through.

"York's in America, on tour," Bodie announced. "According to Cowley's
message, he's scheduled to arrive in London early tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow? That's leaving it a bit late."

"He's a jobbing actor, according to Cowley."

"Bit cold-hearted, though."

"Commitments, Ray. If I suddenly turned up toes, you'd carry on like a
proper little trouper, now wouldn't you?"

"Yeah, but you're only my *partner*, Bodie."

"Up yours, mate."

Resting his head against the partition, Doyle groaned under his breath.
"We're different."

Ruefully eyeing his exhausted partner, Bodie murmured, "Are we?" He tapped
a finger against Doyle's knee, "How much sleep *did* you get last night?"

One jaded eye rolled open to stare inimically at him. "Three hours at the
outside."

"You couldn't've spent all night on one bloody dream."

"No." Doyle laid his arms across his chest and took a deep breath. "Only-"

"What?"

The chair came forward with a loud *clunk*. Doyle placed a hand on the
nearest file, though he made no move to pick it up. "Nothing. What do we
have here?"

Loathe to leave off interrogating his partner, Bodie nevertheless
recognized the clear signs of resistance brewing in Doyle's set features.
He took up the STANDARD and offered it to him. "Have a look through this;
find out what's being said about Quayle's untimely demise."

Perfunctorily, the two men quickly skimmed through CI5's daily
subscriptions, gratified to find little in the way of facts, and even less
in the way of speculation.

"Cowley must've threatened a D-Notice, don't you think?" Doyle mused.

"With a load of MPs involved, it's a wonder he didn't invoke it."

"So what's in the envelope?"

" 'S the odds and sods Olivia requested." Bodie withdrew a small stack of
computer print-out paper from the manila enclosure, gave it a quick study,
then thrust it out toward his partner. Blinking to uncross his eyes, Doyle
took the sheets out of Bodie's fist. Bodie continued, "That accounts for
the bulk of it." He upended the envelope to dislodge the last of the
contents, then stirred a finger through the objects that fell out onto the
table. "Some clearer prints of the photos in the newspaper clippings;
there's a help. Some official bios, CV's, that sort of thing. In case you
were wondering, the names on that print-out look like matching those
mentioned in Livi's clippings. At least that's encouraging."

Completing a slow perusal through the computer print-out, Doyle commented,
"Not one of those ministers died under questionable circumstances, Bodie.
Not according to this, anyway."

"*Someone* questioned it."

"Olivia and Quayle for starters." Doyle drained the cold dregs of his tea.
"So where do *we* begin?"

"Lists. Each of those MPs. Who and how, when and where. Party
affiliations, marital status, religion."

"Be easier to persuade one of the secretaries to put it on the computer."

"And which one of them is offering her services this week?"

A wide grin fell just shy of Doyle's red-rimmed eyes. "All of them. What
you said about them wanting to cure me: You were right!"

"Have 'em queued up, do you? On a roster, like?"

"Could do-but, no."

"Why ever not?"

"I'm practicing fidelity. 'M a married man now, y'know!"

"Only in your dreams, sweetheart." The endearment was spoken with
something approaching the verve and nasal quality of Humphrey Bogart-or so
Bodie hoped.

"Gave you the best two weeks of me life, and see where it's got me," Doyle
mourned. An exaggerated sigh pierced the air-but an instant later, the
pose of forlorn lover was cast off. "Reckon we'll have to do these
ourselves. Hand me a batch of those, will you; then you can ring the
hospital."

******

As the morning waned, Bodie's eyes strayed with increased frequency toward
the sliver of pale light that shafted into their windowless space from the
hallway. He longed to be doing something constructive; paperwork filled
him with loathing, always had; and he was hungry, his belly rumbling
noisily and insistently enough to earn a repressive grin from his partner.

"We have a list-"

"Lists," Bodie corrected.

"Lists of all the MPs involved. One died in a road accident, on his way
home following a meal with friends; one in a shooting incident, whilst
cleaning his rifle after a day of grouse hunting; one of heart attack, in
his bed-he was 67; one was a hit-and-run victim-that one's a little bit
odd, as he was witnessed darting in and out of early morning traffic
before being struck and killed-the driver, by the way, was exonerated;
one, with a history of treatment for despondency, of suicide-threw herself
under a train at Victoria Station; and one, while out late of a night
three years ago, was savaged by a dog-died of blood loss and trauma before
he could be got to hospital. The dog was not found, but that saintly
gentleman was reported to collect strays off the street which were then
delivered to Battersea. Oh, and speaking of dog attacks-we ought to have
the results of the bite pattern comparison between that victim and Olivia
in the morning."

He cleared his throat and continued with his summary, "There are no
obvious common links between any of the dead MPs. They're almost equally
split between Labour and Conservative; range in age from 31 to 74; two
women, five blokes; three C of E, two RC, one agnostic, one avowed
atheist; two represented poor constituencies, two, affluent, and three,
middle income." He noted whimsically, "None share the same initials-in any
combination; none have the same number of letters in their names-first or
last; they all have different birthdates; four were married, three,
single; five have-"

"I get the picture, Doyle. Must be something in their voting records,
don't you think?"

Doyle's mouth puckered. "Quick of you."

"Basic, really-what else could it be?"

Bodie received no answer, for Doyle had picked up the handset and was
dialling Records. As his partner spoke into the mouthpiece, Bodie glanced
longingly at the light glowing beyond the partition at Doyle's back. The
day had clearly grown brighter throughout this interminable morning; such
days were not to be wasted with winter hovering so near at hand.

"Yes, love, I know it's a load of work-but can't you just push a few
buttons and have the computer do it for you? Ah- I see. Yes, I do
understand-but it's for Bodie, y'know? He asked me to ring *you*. He
*did." *

Doyle's face was animated and impressively sincere. *You bastard*, Bodie
mouthed. An indulgent smile was cast his way in acknowledgment.

A moment later, the receiver restored to its proper place, Doyle
announced, "All set. Tomorrow at the earliest, though. They're busy just
now."

"You're a toad, Doyle."

"Gosh, thanks. Let's get on with our lis-"

"Bodie and Doyle?" A woman stepped into the opening to their cubicle.
Somewhere between thirty and forty, she was graced with pleasant features
and nearly pure white hair. Eyes the shade of cornflowers warily regarded
the two men.

"He's Bodie; I'm Doyle."

"I'm Mrs. Diamond." She showed them a manila envelope, held close to her
body and gripped tightly in both hands. "I understand that you've taken on
Olivia Wingate's case?"

"Yes." Bodie stood and gestured toward his empty chair. "Please, sit down,
Mrs. Diamond."

"Thank you, but I mustn't." She hesitated, choosing her words with care.
"Before she was injured, Olivia asked me to collect some information for
her."

"If you have anything at all you think might help, we'd be most grateful,"
Doyle said candidly.

*Doyle, * Bodie thought uncharitably, *can be positively winsome when he
chooses. *

"I do have...something." The woman dropped her eyes. "It was a favor."
Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, and said in a rush, "I
oughtn't to have done it."

"You oughtn't to have done what, Mrs. Diamond?" Bodie asked quietly.

"I compiled a dossier on a private citizen without permission. Olivia
needed information on her; said it was terribly important. I'm afraid I-"

"You did the right thing," Doyle assured her. "Is that it?" He extended a
hand in unspoken appeal.

"Mr. Cowley may not see it that way," Mrs. Diamond said stolidly. "But
with Olivia so badly injured, you couldn't possibly know who she was
looking into. And if it may help in some way-"

"Leave it all to us." Bodie, carefully approaching the woman, gently freed
the envelope from her grasp. "Your name will not be mentioned, I promise
you."

"It isn't something I do as a rule, you understand? Only for Olivia-and
only very rarely."

"Please. Don't worry yourself," Doyle said. "You can't know how grateful
we are."

The woman backed toward the opening. "You're sure?"

"Quite."

Despite a patently burning desire to flee, Mrs. Diamond held herself
rigidly in place. "One more thing-"

"Yes?" Bodie asked.

"See to Olivia? She's a lovely, brave girl. I mean, I know she can take
care of herself and all that. Just-"

"We'll do our best." Projecting confidence with every fiber of his being,
Bodie held his tongue, lest the halting conversation stumble on forever.
The woman nodded once and turned away, her footsteps ringing in quick
cadence as she fled down the corridor. Unable to resist an instant longer,
Bodie ripped open the mysterious envelope.

"What is it?" Doyle demanded, looming over Bodie's shoulder, his breath
warm on Bodie's neck.

"Back off a bit, will you?"

"Be happy to, once I've had a look. C'mon, mate, what is it: A signed
confession? Photographs taken *flagrante delicto*? A microdot? A key to a
secret boudoir-" Doyle cursed. "Is that all?"

There were three typewritten sheets and a photograph. Slowly, for their
mutual observation, Bodie leafed through the pages; then he raised the
photograph to the light. "Here-we've seen her before, haven't we?" Between
thumb and forefinger, Bodie displayed the black and white print. It
featured a man, nondescript save for his handsomely tailored morning suit
and bow-tie, and a blonde, well-coifed, elegantly if simply dressed,
woman. To the trained eye there was no question that the photo had been
enlarged and cropped to focus on the woman, who stood a little to one side
and behind the man, whose dark clad form had been cut half out of frame.
"And him: He's one of the dead blokes, isn't he? Can swear I've seen his
grinning mug before."

Sending his fingers scrabbling through the stack of papers and photos on
their desk, Doyle's hand surfaced a moment later with newspaper clippings
regarding two different MPs. "Here-*and* here!" Both accompanying photos
had been taken at either a party or reception-the manner of dress,
prevalence of wine glasses, servants, and *hors d'oeuvres* trays made that
fairly apparent. The blonde woman was in both of the news photos, though
neither of the MPs who appeared with her seemed aware of-or even
interested in-her presence. "So who is she?"

"Francesca Oldman," Bodie read aloud. He paused. "Lives in Chelsea, Ray."

"Street?"

"Drove through it this morning. Right across the way from where Livi's car
was found."

Doyle's eyes opened wide, then drifted half-closed. "Too easy. Go on. Read
me a story."

Bodie did, citing the specifics of Francesca Oldman's existence as it had
been condensed for the report. The details were all superficial-physical
information: age, weight, color of hair; personal background: schooling,
occupation-with nothing noted regarding her philosophical, political,
religious, or emotional dispositions.

"She must like dogs," Bodie said solemnly. "Has a Borzoi kennel in
Lingfield, Surrey." He gave Doyle a thoughtful look.

"What's a Borzoi?" Doyle asked.

"Russian Wolfhounds, according to this. Big dogs, I reckon. We'll ask her.
Has no family. No husband, living or deceased. Keeps the Chelsea flat as
well as the `little country place' in Lingfield."

"Estate, is it?"

"As near as; the manager of the kennel lives on the grounds and maintains
the house, as well. `Being of independent means,' " Bodie quoted, " `Miss
Oldman does a bit of charity work. Mostly, however, she rubs elbows with
the elite and wealthy to lobby for a few causes close to her heart.' "

"What sort of causes?" Doyle was furiously scratching notes upon his
notepad.

"Animal rights, mostly."

Doyle's pencil stilled; his curly head came up. "Animal rights?"

Bodie stuck a finger in his ear and gave it a twist. "Is there an echo?"

"Prat. That's significant, isn't it?"

"Why?"

"Perhaps Oldman failed to get support for her `causes' because of
opposition from certain, now dead individuals. She owns big dogs, you
said. Maybe she's trained them to kill."

"Maybe. Remember, though, that the animal attacks-if you include Olivia
among the victims-account for only two instances-and the first occurred a
bit over ten years ago. Now if you're implying that the former MPs were
killed because they were all anti-animal rights, it isn't likely, is it,
considering that some of them were left of left-and lefties are renowned
for their support of that kind of thing."

For a moment, Doyle simply looked at him. "Logical-but, logic can be
relative."

This bit of profundity made Bodie blink. "Meaning?"

"Only, Oldman's reasons for killing all of those MPs-*if* she's the one
who killed 'em-were *her* reasons."

"Female logic, y'mean?"

"Maybe, maybe not. There may be no particular *logic* to explain her
motives."

"You're not making a lot of sense, mate," Bodie sighed.

"Am so, and you know it." Doyle stood and reached for his jacket. "Time we
had some fresh air."

"In Chelsea?"

"In Chelsea."

******

Lunch consisted of a packaged sandwich and a carton of juice consumed
during the drive from Whitehall to Chelsea. In between mouthfuls, Bodie
and Doyle planned their campaign. Armed with the information researched by
Mrs. Diamond, they were confident that their quarry would present no
difficulty. At this point, they intended to sound her out, pose a few
questions that would, with luck, unbalance her and-if they were very
lucky-cause her to reveal more about herself than she might like.

The drive was companionable and brief. Outside, sunshine-crisp, clear, and
increasingly warm-gave their spirits a rise. Again, the spell of fine
weather was not expected to last-but Bodie meant to relish it while he
could. Upon finding a parking slot almost upon Francesca Oldman's
doorstep, Bodie decided they could have no better omen for the interview
to come-providing, of course, that Miss Oldman was at home.

In answer to their summons, however, they were met at the door by a young,
attractive woman, who forestalled their hopes of being invited inside at
once.

"She is in, yes," the woman informed them graciously, "but she is also
rather indisposed at the moment."

"Not feeling well?" Doyle asked sympathetically.

"I'm afraid not."

"It's very important that we speak with her, Miss-" Bodie waited, blue
eyes artlessly compelling.

"Flower," she said, gravely.

"We won't take up much of her time, Miss Flower," he assured her, willing
the woman to respond to his sincerity, to the flattering way he regarded
her, and to his own not-unappealing aspect.

Doyle dug into a back pocket and produced his CI5 identification. Holding
it out for her to examine, he said, "It is very important, Miss Flower."

Startled, she glanced uncertainly from him to Bodie. "Please wait here,"
she said, and directed them into a small chamber located off the foyer.

As soon as she was gone, Bodie grimaced exasperatedly at his partner.
Doyle, however, was having an appreciative glance round. The room was both
richly and handsomely furnished, containing three chairs, a wood-trimmed
sofa, coffee table topped with a bright spring floral arrangement, and a
rack chock-full with a wide-ranging selection of glossy magazines.

"What'd you go and do that for? She was about ready to-"

"Eat out of your hand? I know. You can have her for dinner later, okay?"

Affronted, Bodie said, "Don't want her. And by the way: Cowley won't love
you, if you keep flashing your ID about like that."

"Bodie." Doyle opened his mouth to respond, closed it, then opened it
again. "You're the one saw the big dog last night, right? If, as we
suspect, it belongs to Miss Oldman, she has very likely seen us by now-at
least from a distance."

"Just because we were in Quayle's-?" The sentence died in his mouth. Bodie
was remembering the sound of leaves scraping across the pavement behind
him-or had that been the rasp of a dog's nails? He had not spoken to Doyle
of the incident; nor was now the time to bring it up.

"What about our being in Quayle's fl-?"

"Mr. Bodie, Mr. Doyle?"

Miss Flower had silently reappeared inside the door to the parlor. "Miss
Oldman will see you in a few minutes. She's asked that you wait for her in
her study. If you'll come with me, please."

"Thank you," Doyle said. He immediately fell in step behind the young
woman, rather conspicuously cutting off his partner.

Francesca Oldman's study was as pleasantly-and expensively-decorated as
the rest of the house. The Persian carpet underfoot stretched elegantly
across a beautifully restored oak floor that gleamed with recent
polishing. A desk, made of veined marble and chrome, commanded one corner
of the room. Filled with books, a huge glassed-in cupboard covered an
entire wall. A single window, draped with ornately patterned nets and
heavy damask curtains that complemented the marble desk in design and
richness, let in only a little of the day's light. To compensate, a brass
lamp which occupied a corner of the desk, put forth a warm though subdued
glow.

Very softly, coming from speakers concealed somewhere in the room, music
was playing. As the words began to register, Bodie's eyes widened:

*"Are you listening to your fear

The beat is coming nearer

Like that little drum in your ear

Transfixes you to your fear." *

The voice was low and sultry, as rich and vibrant as the tones of a cello,
and contemptuous-even without those unpleasant words, Bodie was certain he
would hear contempt in that voice.

Taking all of this in, it was a moment before he noticed Doyle's movement
toward the wall behind the desk, green eyes fixed on the print hanging
there. His partner came to an abrupt stop, stood absolutely motionless for
a long second, then began to back up, each step uncharacteristically
measured and rigid.

"You need not worry, Mr. Doyle. *Domovoy* will not harm you."

Francesca Oldman closed the door. Walking with the assistance of a
hand-carved stick, she came into the room, her pace slow, but steadfast. A
tall, narrowly-built dog rose from the floor behind the desk and padded
forward to greet her. She laid her free hand upon its head, curving
well-manicured nails into dark, silken hair. "Lie down, my love," she said
affectionately.

Waving a hand at two large, leather chairs arranged in front of the desk,
she said civilly, "And you, gentlemen, please, you may sit."

As she made her way across the room, her canine companion walked with her,
parting company at the end of the desk, where it lay upon a half-obscured
oversize pillow, its inordinately long muzzle resting on even longer legs.
Francesca Oldman sat in the straight-backed, wooden chair behind the desk,
her walking stick hooked on its arm. For the first time, Bodie saw the
metal grip clearly: It was a wolf's head; silver, at a guess.

"My print, Mr. Doyle: You were staring at it. Do you like it?"

Doyle did not at first answer. "It's-not very pleasant."

The print was a photograph of two cosmetics-laboratory rabbits, bodies
enclosed in small boxes, only their heads exposed. One was white, the
other gray. Muzzles pressed close together, they were nuzzling one
another, seeking-and finding-in their joint misery an instant of comfort.
At the bottom, printed in small letters, was the simple annotation, "Lord
Snowdon, 1976, Bangkok."

"No, it isn't. But then the life of such creatures rarely is. And you, Mr.
Bodie, what do you think of it?"

Wondering how she knew which of them was which, Bodie said
expressionlessly, "I've always liked bunnies."

"That is an unusual attitude for a soldier."

"Former soldier," Bodie said mildly.

"CI5 is a quasi-military organization." She regarded them steadily. "Which
leads me, of course, to ask: Why are you here?"

"One of our agents was badly injured a couple of nights ago," Doyle
informed her without embroidery. "Savaged by a large animal; very likely,
a dog. Not far from here-the public lavs near World's End."

"Yes, I did hear about that." The woman lightly touched a finger to the
metal wolf's head, slowly tracing its shiny contours. "It was not
*Domovoy*, if that's what you're concerned about."

"How can we be sure-other than by taking your word for it?" Bodie watched
the graceful occupation of her hand with something approaching
fascination.

"You can't," Francesca Oldman said composedly. "Unless you request legal
intercession."

"To obtain a bite pattern?"

"Yes. I would happily grant you permission-but it is not pleasant for the
animal, you understand?" There was a hint of ice in the woman's confident,
softly pitched voice; pale green eyes harbored it as well.

"I understand," Bodie said. "You've been lobbying for animal rights for
several years now."

"Yes."

"Did the deaths of Allen Adams, Ray Powell, Tony Lloyd, Kate Hoey, Ted
Garrett, Jeremy Hanley, and Ita Maloney strike you in any way odd?"

The gauntlet had been thrown down. A vaguely reptilian smile lent a curve
to the woman's well-shaped mouth. "You are talking about people who have
passed away over a number of years. But as far as I recall, they all died
unremarkably. Have you some reason to believe otherwise?"

"We do. And you're wrong about the way they died. There are some rather
obvious inconsistencies," Bodie exaggerated, "especially with regard to
Jeremy Hanley. Savaged by a big animal, he was."

"Ah, yes. That was-what?-three, four years ago?"

"About that."

"Wasn't he on holiday in Wales at the time?"

"Yes."

She folded her hands together and rested them on the ink blotter laid
across the surface of the desk. "You will want to verify this, of course;
but all of my dogs were at show in London that day-did quite well, most of
them, too."

Doyle dutifully jotted notes on his pad of paper. "And you, Miss Oldman:
Were you with them?"

"Of course."

The woman was gracious, yet cool-and Bodie wondered what she was hiding.
In the background, the music had changed, though the voice remained the
same:

*"Shrunken heads under the bed

The flies are humming...." *

He frowned. "What about Trevor Quayle?"

Head tilted with curiosity, the woman murmured, "Sorry?"

"Reporter. Was killed yesterday-again, by a large animal."

"That wasn't carried in the papers," she said knowledgeably. "In any case,
all of my animals, including *Domovoy*, were in Lingfield yesterday, Mr.
Bodie-which can be confirmed."

Biting his lip against a pungent remark, Bodie locked gazes with the
woman. Untroubled, she was not the first to look away. 

"One more question, Miss Oldman." Impersonally polite, Bodie asked,
"*Could* your dogs kill someone-if they took a notion to?"

Francesca Oldman studied him benignly. "If my dogs were so inclined, they
could certainly inflict tremendous damage-and, I presume, death. They are,
however, very well trained and the most affable of creatures, I assure
you. My dogs are *not* responsible for the harming of anyone."

"Well trained, you say? Trained to kill, by any chance?"

With unmistakable sarcasm, she replied, "Not yet, no-but your attitude may
argue the advisability of doing so."

With a *snap*, Doyle closed his notepad. "Thank you, Miss Oldman." He quit
the chair amid a symphony of creaking leather. The expression he turned
toward Bodie spoke volumes.

Following his partner's lead, Bodie also stood. "If we have other
questions, will we be able to reach you here?"

The woman leaned forward to consult her desk diary. "I shall be leaving
shortly for Lingfield to look in on my dogs; back late this afternoon. I
have nothing else scheduled for the next few days. If you should have any
other questions, you may contact my assistant Lucy Flower to schedule an
appointment."

"We appreciate your cooperation." Doyle looked expectantly at his partner.

Tucking his own notepad into an inside pocket, Bodie hesitated. "Is it
possible that one of your animals was out roaming about Hoxton last
night?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doyle go very still.

The woman regarded him unblinkingly. "No, Mr. Bodie. None of my animals
was anywhere near Hoxton last night."

She spoke with such conviction, Bodie almost believed her.

******

Within the confines of the Capri, the windows were fogged from front to
back. Doyle blew noisily on his coffee, then took a slurping drink.

Poorly concealing his annoyance, Bodie said nettled, "Are you *sure* you
don't want to flip a coin?"

"I'm sure, Bodie."

" 'S not like you, Ray."

"Hm. So you keep saying. The dog-*Domovoy*-was it the one you saw in
Quayle's window?"

"No."

"Did you see it in Hoxton-outside my flat?"

"No. Didn't see anything there. Anyway, it's the wrong color. And you're
changing the subject, Ray."

"I'm not. You are free to work your wiles on Miss Flower with a clear
conscience; I'll follow Miss Oldman to Lingfield."

The weather had turned, morning sunshine vanquished by grey skies and
chill rain. Bodie scrubbed an oval of windscreen clear of condensation and
glared out. "You really think she was telling the truth about her dogs?"

"Yes." Doyle sucked at his teeth. "I'd wager a week's pay."

Bodie's eyes flared open in disbelief. "You are joking? She was too
smooth, Ray. And she knew exactly what we were talking about."

"You're not wrong about that." Doyle slumped deeper into the driver's
seat. "But when we get results from the bite pattern taken from Quayle and
that MP-Jeremy Hanley-they won't match any of her animals-just you wait
and see."

"Maybe." Bodie took a sip of steaming coffee. "Doesn't mean she's not
involved."

Shifting a little, Doyle rested his head against the neckrest. "A hidden
animal, you think? Someone else's?"

"Have to be, wouldn't it? *If* you're right, that is-and we don't turn up
a match on any of the bite patterns."

"She was too confident," Doyle reminded him. He sighed. "Taking her own
bloody time, isn't she?"

"Steady on, old son." Bodie turned his head, considering his partner
measuringly. "Don't you fancy her, then?"

Doyle's eyes opened wide. "Who?"

"Miss Flower. Who else?"

Face blank, Doyle seemed lost for an answer. Then his attention abruptly
focused, skipping past Bodie to the street beyond. "At ruddy last!"

"Eh?"

"Miss Oldman, hobbling down the steps. Prepare to bail out, sunshine. I
don't want to lose her."

"Not to worry. At the speed she's going, you could tail her on a
pushbike."

"Yeah? See that Jag? I *thought* it might belong to her! *Out! *"

"Okay, okay-but don't take right off: She'll see me."

"Your fault for parking so near the flat. Bodie-"

Doyle's eyes were riveted on the woman in the sleek, black Jaguar; yet
there was something in his voice that put Bodie on his guard. "What now?"

"Be nice to her, eh?"

"I'm always nice, Doyle," Bodie replied automatically. "But who did you
have in mind this time?"

"Miss Flower. She's a nice girl." He bit his lip. "A bit like Pamela."

"Pamela-? *Pamela? *" Resisting the impulse to tear his eyes away from the
Jaguar-Francesca Oldman was inside and scrupulously attending to her seat
belt and the positioning of mirrors-Bodie turned his mind back to the
conversation interrupted the previous evening-just before Trevor Quayle
was murdered. "You never did explain why you brought up her name-unless it
was just to remind me you'd saved my hide that night."

"Nah. 'S not important. You ready?"

"Always. If it's not important, then say why."

A quick flick of the head, a dismissive wave of a hand. "Told you she'd
had a cry on my shoulder over you? Well, she was really smitten. Deserved
better."

"Who doesn't?"

"Out, Bodie; she's started the engine."

"Hang on. It'll take her a minute to clear the Merc and the Bentley. What
else? About Pamela?"

Doyle bared his teeth, clearly restive.

"Come on!"

The next words were machine-gunned out: "She told me about you. You know,
in bed."

A little taken aback, Bodie hid his consternation with a wisecrack. "All
about my exceptional staying power and impressive proportions, no doubt."

Doyle broke into a grin. "I think she did say something about you putting
a Grand National winner to shame."

Certain now that he was being sent up, Bodie said scornfully, "*Pamela*
never said that."

"Well, no. Was putting it into me own words."

Arching a supercilious brow, Bodie demanded, "What else? I've a bird
needing seducing, y'know."

With hands coiled whitely round the steering wheel, Doyle replied, "You
wanted to know, and I'm telling you. Pamela had a lot to say. She went on
and on about what a tender and sensitive lover you were."

The muscles worked in Bodie's jaws. "The punch line, Doyle."

"Only, I've wondered ever since-"

"No," Bodie said crushingly. "You cannot watch."

Doyle turned and stared at him. "*I've wondered ever since*...if you're as
good as she said."

Transfixed by that vivid gaze, Bodie felt the blood drain out of his face.
His heart advanced a beat; the roar of white noise in his ears fairly
deafened him.

If Doyle were winding him up-and this had all the earmarks of an elaborate
prank-Bodie was in danger of making a very large fool of himself; if Doyle
were serious-

*Could he be serious? *

Taking the risk of his life, Bodie conjured a rueful smile. "The best,
sunshine," he said with something approaching his usual rakishness. "Want
me to show you?"

Face unreadable, Doyle licked his lips, mouth half-open. He cleared his
throat; but the words were not ready. "I-"

The powerful purr of the accelerating Jaguar jolted them out of their
preoccupation. Doyle canted his head in the direction of the pavement.
"Off with you, mate."

Knowing better than to argue, Bodie scrambled out of the car. Holding the
door half open, he began, "Ray-"

Gunning the engine in warning, Doyle wrinkled his nose engagingly. Then he
reached for the passenger door and jerked it out of Bodie's hand. An
instant later, the silver Capri sped away from the curb. Bodie stared
after it until the vehicle had vanished round the corner, a squeal of
tires and the outraged shouts of just-missed pedestrians foaming in its
wake.

"Bastard," Bodie whispered.

The soft, frigid rain dripping into his eyes recalled him to his
surroundings. Joylessly contemplating the Chelsea flat belonging to
Francesca Oldman, Bodie crushed the empty beaker of coffee still clutched
in his hand and thought of Oldman's young assistant Lucy Flower: He had a
job to do; Doyle would have to wait. With a flick of the wrist, he flipped
the beaker into the gutter and stepped into the street.

******

The hands on Bodie's watch seemed to have stopped moving. It was nearly
six; he had been back in HQ since before five. He would have sworn that he
had been there far longer. Tired, out of sorts, and seething with
impatience, he blindly flicked through the most recent collection of paper
found cluttering their desk: voting records of the deceased MPs; a couple
of messages from Dispatch; a one-page dossier on Lucy Flower that told him
nothing he did not already know; and a brief medical update on Olivia
Wingate, who was still in a coma.

Just as he was toying with the idea of confronting the vending machine
once more, he heard the familiar bouncy tread of his partner coming down
the corridor.

"Hello, there," Doyle greeted him brightly. He threw Bodie's keys in his
direction. "Didn't expect to find you here."

The keys dexterously caught, Bodie replied with deliberate detachment,
"Should've done." He jangled metal against metal. "You had my car."

"Oh, right. What's all that, then?"

"Have a look. How'd it go in Lingfield?"

Shuffling through the varied papers, Doyle answered distractedly, "Clean
and tidy operation; the kennel manager, Daniel Currie, was most helpful."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Shit!" Doyle crumpled one of the messages from Dispatch in his
fist. "That bloody Walker is pushing his luck."

"No Harley tomorrow?" Bodie's eyes dropped to the prominent bulge
deforming the lie of Doyle's trousers. "You'll do yourself serious damage
if you have to wait much longer."

In reply, Doyle drew a gruesome face.

"We have voting records for Livi's MPs."

"All that stuff there?"

"Pages and pages." Bodie pushed away from the desk and lifted his jacket
off the back of the chair. 

Doyle's face darkened. He said sulkily, "That's just great." Drops of rain
wept from limp curls onto the edge of the desk. "Reckon you have a hot
assignation with Miss Flower, and you're leaving this lot to me?"

"You reckon wrong."

"No? So where are you off to then?"

After running the zip up to the middle of his chest, Bodie meticulously
stacked the pile of paperwork together. This in turn was dumped into a
large envelope. "*We* are going to my flat. We'll grill a pizza and try to
sort this lot out."

A delighted smile charmed the pout from Doyle's mouth. "She turned you
down!"

"Never even asked," Bodie advised him perfunctorily. " 'M a married man
now too, remember?"

"Couldn't prove it by me."

"The night is young." He swept past Doyle, who continued to eye him with
cheerful suspicion.

"She *did* turn you down, didn't she!"

Bodie groaned. "There's just no pleasing you, Doyle."

******

Doyle was at last in possession of a car again; they journeyed in their
separate vehicles to Bodie's flat. Once arrived, they concentrated on
preparing their meal, nattering about anything and everything-but nothing
of consequence. With the pizza in the oven and the salad and drinks
prepared, an awkward silence fell between them. After no more than a
minute of this, Doyle took to his feet, heading for the telephone in the
foyer to ring the hospital for an update on Olivia's condition.
Unfortunately, the news was mixed. Though still holding her own, she had
not regained consciousness.

Shortly thereafter, their meal was ready, and by tacit agreement, they
restricted their conversation to job-related titbits. Settled comfortably
on Bodie's settee in the living room, Doyle described the set-up at
Ladyhaye Kennels-Francesca Oldman's Borzoi puppy farm in Lingfield. He had
observed nothing of interest to CI5. Oldman had disappeared into the
manager's cottage apparently for a brief consultation; minutes later she
had reappeared, accompanied by said manager, to undertake a strolling
inspection of the kennels.

Oldman, Doyle reported, took excellent care of her charges. They were
well-fed, professionally boarded, and lovingly looked after. The animals
knew and plainly liked her, each responding eagerly to her voice and touch
as she passed by.

Once Oldman had concluded her business and returned to her car for the
drive back to London, Doyle had presently delivered himself to the manager
of the kennel in the guise of a would-be buyer inquiring after a Borzoi
suitable for show purposes. Currie, the manager, had established himself
as knowledgeable and amiable. He had gone into great detail regarding the
breed itself; its travails throughout the last century; its progress in
Russia, North America, and England; and Ladyhaye's efforts on its behalf.

There were five dogs, six bitches, and a mob of seven-week-old puppies-all
but one of which was female. The rest of the youngsters, Doyle was
apprised, would be passed on to the owner of the stud two weeks hence, and
were as yet too young to confirm their potential. He had been given the
name of the puppies' owner, should Doyle wish to contact her. None of the
animals had been silver, nor were any as large as the creature Bodie had
seen at Trevor Quayle's window.

In turn, Bodie recounted his afternoon's efforts. Lucy Flower had been
more than willing to play truant for a cup of tea and a cheese sandwich
with Bodie-though she would not be cajoled into anything more extravagant.
He went into little detail regarding his method of eliciting information
from her, but it was made clear that Lucy had found him scintillating
company.

"But what you're really saying," Doyle summarized at last, "is that for
all your efforts, you didn't learn anything useful."

"No more than you, sunshine," Bodie countered. He was half-sprawled upon
his sofa, can of beer braced between his hands at the center of his chest.
With lazy contentment, he watched Doyle, who sat in the overstuffed chair
opposite him, finish the last wedge of pizza.

"Unfortunately true," Doyle conceded. He reached for his own lager. Before
before raising it to his mouth, he softly asked, "So, give over: What was
wrong with her?"

"Wrong?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? I'm the one eating your pizza, not her. And she's
perfect, Bodie. Young, built, blonde. Don't tell me your tastes have
changed."

Slowly rotating the can round and round, Bodie said unemphatically,
"Reckon maybe they have."

A shrewd look came into Doyle's eyes. "I know: She's secretly married.
Or-worse still-she's preggers."

"You're a twit, Ray. How much have you had to drink?"

"Same as you. Out with it, mate."

Bodie sighed and turned away. "Actually," he said without guile, "I'm
saving myself."

"You don't know how." Doyle punctuated this statement with a rude chortle.

"Ah, but you're wrong. For *you*," Bodie argued with an overbearing grin,
"I can do anything."

This gave Doyle a full minute's pause. "Yeah? Then prove it. We haven't
even started going through these voting records yet."

"No time like the present."

"And after?"

Bodie stared at him, suddenly unsure what Doyle was asking. "After, we'll
talk about it." He did not bother to define what "it" was. For that
matter, he was not certain himself. In the hours intervening since their
parting outside Oldman's flat, Bodie had vacillated between whether Doyle
was having him on, or coming on to him. With Doyle, it was entirely
possible that even *he* didn't know.

By midnight, they had gone through each of the lists at least three times.
Bodie's supply of beer and beef-and-cheddar crisps had been laid waste.
Frustration levels were running perilously high.

"Bloody nothing!" Sitting cross-legged on the floor near the end of the
settee, Doyle flung half a dozen sheets of paper onto the coffee table.
They fanned out like a peacock's tail; two or three slipped free and
fluttered off the edge onto the floor.

"Nothing conclusive, you mean," Bodie differed, rubbing his eyes with the
heels of his palms.

"Nothing *nothing*, is what I mean!" Doyle snarled. "This lot never voted
consistently for or against anything. Always at least one dissenter or
abstainer on any issue. Only thing the bleeders have in common is that
they're all dead. Makes no sense at all!"

"To us, anyway." Unable to sit a minute longer, Bodie pushed off from the
sofa, braced his legs apart, and stretched, hands pointing toward the
ceiling. "Time to call it a day, mate."

Doyle glared up at him. Slowly, eyes traveling the length of Bodie's body,
his expression underwent a transformation. The anger bled away, to be
replaced by caution and a hint of disquiet. His gaze returned to Bodie's
face and settled there. "I'll be off then." A second later he too was on
his feet, long legs carrying him to the overstuffed chair across the back
of which was slung his jacket.

"You're welcome to sleep here, y'know." The words, familiar and
unthreatening, were easily spoken, only the huskiness of Bodie's unusually
deep voice making them somehow charged and dangerous.

"Best not," Doyle mumbled.

"Jesus, Ray," Bodie exploded, "I'm not out to rape you, y'know!"

Purposefully zipping up his jacket, Doyle asked, "What *are* you out for,
Bodie?"

"I-" Something scathingly sarcastic teetered on the tip of Bodie's tongue,
ready to dive off; he shut his mouth and kept it inside.

Head raised, chin forward, Doyle said, "The joke's over, okay? We've both
got out of hand since those two weeks in Leeds."

"You so sure about that?" Bodie asked mutinously. "That it's all been a
joke, I mean?"

"About you? No, I haven't been sure at all."

"And what about *you*?" Bodie demanded. "Don't forget, Ray. *You* kissed
*me. *"

As if drawn by a magnet, Doyle's eyes fell to Bodie's mouth. Heavy-lidded,
they lingered there a moment, tracing the shape, brushing over the swells
and curves. Suddenly realizing what he was doing, Doyle turned away.

Shivering at the heat of that imagined touch, Bodie whispered, "You want
to do that again, don't you!"

Doyle gave himself a shake. He spun round. "I gotta go."

Thinking only that he must not let his partner leave like this, Bodie
started after him. He blurted, "You're running!"

Planting his feet squarely on the floor, Doyle pivoted on the heels of his
boots, eyes sparking with challenge. "If I thought you were-" He stopped
himself, caught his breath and began again, "If I thought you could be-"
Making a violent cutting motion with the edge of his hand, Doyle exclaimed
something that was to Bodie incomprehensible.

"I am, Ray," Bodie breathed. "All that and more."

Bodie's words seemed to calm Doyle's inner turmoil. "You don't even know
what I was going to say."

Suddenly at a disadvantage and not knowing why, Bodie countered sharply,
"So say it, whatever it is. 'S not like you to be bashful."

"Okay. *Serious. * If I thought you were serious."

"I am serious. What else?"

"If I thought you could be-"

"Trusted?" Bodie anticipated him. "Christ, Doyle, if you can't trust me
by-"

"*Bodie! *" Doyle roared. "Not trusted, you fool-*happy*. I don't know,
maybe even satisfied. With me, I mean. I *know* you, Bodie."

Watching his partner, nearly spitting angry, yet so very earnest, Bodie
suddenly absorbed that this meant a great deal to him, that this was
something he had thought about, and not just in passing.

"Goes both ways, sunshine," he said, very quietly. "And there's only one
way to find out."

Disappointment glimmered briefly in Doyle's eyes; it was quickly
extinguished. "Sure."

Bodie's heart began to beat faster. Was it possible that Doyle hoped for
something more from him? *More* than a one-off? If so, Bodie must handle
this with an expertise he might be incapable of. Otherwise, the chance of
a lifetime would be lost to him forever. Relaxing all at once, he summoned
a rather shaky smile. "Think it over, eh? Pick it to pieces the way you
like to do- Then sleep on it. Eh? And if you find you like the idea- Well,
then- Tomorrow."

Whatever lurked in Doyle's mind, it was kept veiled by his unrevealing
demeanor. Hoping that he was reading his uncertain companion correctly,
Bodie stepped toward the door, one hand urging him forth. "C'mon. I'll
walk out with you."

Doyle gave a little laugh, head confidently tipped back. "Think I can find
my way on my own, thanks."

" 'Course you can. But I could use a breather. Let's go."

It was quiet outside. The heavy fog had moved in, freezing cold. Only the
two men walked on the pavement, their steaming breath proclaiming them
warm and alive as it billowed out of their mouths and nostrils with each
exhalation.

"Busy day coming up," Doyle commented. He stopped beside the gold Capri
and slid the key into the lock.

"Another one. We're due some leave, y'know?"

"We are," Doyle confirmed, noncommittally. "Meet you at HQ about
sevenish?"

Bodie nodded with resignation. "Lovely."

Planted in the driver's seat, Doyle shut the door, then wound down the
window. He started the engine and activated the windscreen wipers.
"G'night, Bodie."

" 'Night, Ray." He watched idly as Doyle began to maneuver the car away
from the curb. Once free of the surrounding vehicles, Doyle braked to a
stop.

"Bodie!"

"Yeah?"

Doyle grinned broadly. "*Tomorrow. *" He revved the motor and drove away
before Bodie could order his paralytic thoughts. The red rear-lights of
the car were dulled by the all-devouring fog; soon even the rumble of the
engine was only a muffled memory.

A slight scraping sound brought Bodie's head up with a jerk. With
visibility so poor, there was precious little to be seen. Nevertheless,
his eyes raked the spaces between cars lining the pavement; the dark, wet
streets; the pools of shadow formed by basement entries and window wells.
Nothing. No movement at all. He reached under his jacket and released the
catch on his pistol. The weight of it in his palm reassured him somewhat
less than usual.

*Ghosts and ghoulies.... *

Not a pleasant thought on a night such as this, Bodie decided. With long,
deliberate strides, he marched back to the door of his building, glancing
from side to side as well as over his shoulder, eyes and ears straining
for the slightest irregularity.

Once inside, Bodie still did not drop his guard, entering the lift with
extreme caution, .44 in hand and at ready. The stillness of the building
was not encouraging, striking him at this moment as the hush preceding a
dire event rather than that of mere quietude.

All the same, he arrived at his flat without incident. Ensconced within,
he locked both the deadbolt and the electronic secondary, then proceeded
to thoroughly search every room and cupboard large enough to harbor an
intruder-even one of the canine variety-simultaneously securing all the
windows, including the sliding glass door that opened onto the balcony.
Finding all as it should be, he set milk to heat, performed his usual
ablutions before donning his dressing gown, then returned to the kitchen
to make his cocoa, which he took with him to the bedroom. There he settled
in his bed, sipped his drink, and listened to the multitude of night
sounds heard thousands of times before-all perfectly normal, but all, at
that moment, bordering on the sinister.

Sleep did not come easily.

******

*It was a dream, and on some level of his mind, * he knew *it was a dream.
He lay in bed, half-awake, listening with dread for a repeat of the
scratching, clicking noise that had disturbed his slumber. It came again
from the other side of the closed door. As he watched, the knob slowly
turned, and the door opened. Held immobile by terror and the paralysis
visited upon his corporeal body by sleep, Bodie's dream-self could only
stare wide-eyed at the apparition that stepped majestically into his room.
It was huge, powerfully and intimidatingly built, with eyes as luminous
and colorless as moonlight. The great body was lustrously covered with
silver hair, the head long and well formed. Somehow, the creature knew
where he was, would have known without sight or scent where to find
him-and now it started toward him, jaws parting, revealing long,
glistening teeth. Muscles coiled, legs bent, the thing gathered itself and
leapt effortlessly onto the bed. The weight of it depressed the mattress
at Bodie's feet. It moved upward past his knees, hips, flank-moving
inexorably nearer his throat. And then it was there, its breath, warm and
moist and suffocatingly corrupt, splashing across his face. 

A scream boiled up from the bottom of Bodie's chest, filled his throat,
and spilled into the back of his mouth, where it found itself imprisoned,
desperately searching for a way out. But he could no more scream than he
could move-and the creature was bent over him now, its jaws shutting round
his neck, cutting off the air from his lungs, large teeth penetrating
vulnerable flesh-*

Bodie awoke, gasping.

He was in his bedroom, in his flat-and his throat was intact. To his
incalculable relief, Bodie found himself alone.

That had been a bad one; one of the worse he could remember. He lay still
a moment, encouraging his heart to revert to its normal pace. Everything
was all right: He had checked the flat from top to bottom; the .44 was
well within reach; he was uninjured-

Seemingly of its own volition, a hand crept forth from the warmth of the
bedclothes to cover his throat, to protect it from further nightmares.
Bodie let out an indescribable sound: half laughter, half groan.

"Christ," he breathed. Had he just survived a pitched firefight, he would
not have been more shaken. Realizing the futility of attempting sleep
until he had settled down, Bodie slipped out of bed and retrieved his
dressing gown from the foot of the mattress. Wrapped in its warming folds,
he tucked his feet into waiting slippers, fetched the revolver from the
holster that hung from the bedpost beside his pillow, and started for the
door-at sight of which he came to a stunned halt. Adrenalin rocketed into
his veins: *light! * Pale though it was, it glinted through the narrow
crack formed by jamb and unlatched door. And now, with preternatural
acuity, he could hear the slow, steady scrape of steps on the wood floor,
somewhere without.

There was someone-or something-in his flat.

Bodie's training kicked in, overriding fear, dread, and all the other
emotions suffered by the ordinary individual confronting a potentially
violent situation. Calm now, and simmeringly angry, he crept up to the
door and peered out: The light came from the corner streetlamp half a
street away, its sallow glow straying in through the window over the
landing. He had drawn the curtains before retiring, of that he was quite
certain. The window itself appeared to be closed; at any rate, there was
no breeze-the fabric and nets hung motionless at either side.

From here, only the head of the stairs and a few steps descending could be
seen. Concentrating, Bodie determined that the methodical footsteps had
moved on, probably to the lower level. As if to confirm this conjecture,
there came a frightful crash from downstairs. Forsaking the comparative
advantage of the high ground, he crouched low and went out onto the
landing. Darkness shrouded the stair like a heavy swirling mist-almost
impenetrable. Eyes darting to enhance his night vision, Bodie ventured
downward a step at a time.

A low hum gave voice to the refrigerator, a noisy model Bodie had never
liked. In the cold, still air, there was nothing else to be heard-only
Bodie fancied he could sense another presence, its hearing as finely
attuned as his.

He felt rather than saw the creature's passage, a hint of displaced air
that wafted upward into his face from the bottom of the stair. This was
followed by the softest whisper of a tread, a brushing sound as of
something squeezing through a tight opening-and stillness, utter and
absolute.

Bodie hurried as quickly as he dared down the last steps. The door to the
flat yawned wide, a rectangle of low-wattage incandescence spilling across
the threshold from the landing outside. Purposefully Bodie approached, gun
held low and close to his body. Hearing nothing, he hazarded a swift
glance round the edge of the door-just in time to see a feathery, silver
tail disappear down the stairwell.

Mindlessly launching himself after it in pursuit, he actually got as far
as the first tread-board of the public stair before reason reasserted
itself. It would be idiotic for him to attempt to chase down and confront
the creature without back-up, dressed-or undressed-as he was, and driven
by impulse.

Stymied, Bodie returned to his flat, eyes grimly searching every pool of
darkness, every possible hiding place he passed. Once inside, he pulled
the door to behind him and set the two locks with angry precision. From
there he strode immediately to the window overlooking the street. In the
dark, he folded back one of the fabric panels. He ought to have been
invisible to anyone loitering below, but it was the sensation of being
watched that directed Bodie's own gaze. At the end of the terrace-house
across the way, the creature stood, staring up at Bodie's window, waiting
for him to appear.

*It was huge, powerfully and intimidatingly built, with eyes as luminous
and colorless as moonlight.... * Assured that it had been seen, the animal
dropped its head and bounded away, melting into the surrounding shadows as
though they were an extension of its being.

An inarticulate curse exploded from Bodie's lips. He did not like being
toyed with-and for whatever reason, that's what the creature was doing.
Messing his mind about like-

"Christ!" Bodie gave his head a shake. It was not a *creature*, only a
bloody great dog. A well-trained and intelligent dog, one that performed
its assigned role with uncanny ability-but a dog, only a dog. It was the
animal's mistress he need worry about.

Dropping the curtain flap, Bodie cast a searching look over the living
room and the corridor which led to the front door. *How had she gained
entry? *

Puzzling over the possibilities, he mounted a thorough inspection of the
deadbolt and the electronic secondary. Within only minutes, he had
finished, and much to his chagrin, was none the wiser. She must have had
inside information-and CI5-confidential information at that-to have broken
in without leaving any incriminating traces.

Annoyed and more than a little bothered, Bodie went from room to room,
searching through every nook and cranny in the flat. For all his efforts,
he found nothing to explain how the creature-the *dog! *-had got inside.

Only fifteen minutes after having abandoned his bed, Bodie found himself
in front of his drinks cupboard, bottle of whisky in hand. He pictured
Doyle's big-eyed expression come the morning when he described the
incident to him. There would be no sympathy from him. Oh, no. Barely
repressed derision, more like. Doyle could be such a-

*Doyle. * 

Bodie's hand convulsed around the neck of the bottle, almost snapping it
in two. He was not thinking clearly; he was hardly thinking at all! A
glance at his watch told him that dawn was only a couple of hours
away-more than enough time for her to have-

The thought was crushed like an intruding insect, the mangled remains
thrust into that part of his mind that rarely saw the light of day, along
with all the other horrors that resided there. He would only entertain
*that* possibility if none other were left to him.

Whisky forgotten, Bodie took up the phone in the dining room and dialled
Doyle's personal number. Though under control on the outside, inwardly he
was awash with a dread far more chilling than any he had ever known. He
shivered. Phosphorescent eyes and a long-muzzled grin leered at him from
the back of his mind.

The ringing tone sounded in his ear; a beat, a beat; the tone repeated; a
beat, and another beat. "Answer it, damn you," Bodie hissed. "*Answer it!
*"

On the fourth ring, the receiver was taken off hook-and promptly dropped,
by the sound of it. There came a distantly rasped, "Hang on!" A brief,
rather noisy pause ensued. Then: "Doyle."

In that instant, Bodie saw his future with clarity and absolute certainty.
Stricken with an emotion he had never truly experienced before, Bodie
could not speak.

"Who's that?"

"Ray?" Bodie croaked.

"Bodie, you prick," Doyle growled bad-temperedly. "D'you know what time it
is?"

"Three. Ah-sixteen minutes after three. Ray, are you all right?"

"All right?! I was *asleep. Of course*, I'm bloody well all right!"

"Listen, sunshine," Bodie whispered hurriedly, sensing that Doyle would
disconnect at any second. "I want you to check your flat. Now. *Right now.
*I'll wait."

His reply was a strangled obscenity-but astonishingly, Doyle gave no other
objection. With something like awe, Bodie heard the receiver laid flat,
the rustle of sheets, the rumbling complaint of Doyle pulling on his robe,
then the diminishing report of footsteps as he stalked out of the bedroom.
Calling on every last ounce of patience allotted him, Bodie waited,
counting the seconds, counting his heartbeats, counting the breaths that
echoed inside the handset.

"You want to tell me what exactly is going on?"

The sudden return of Doyle's voice wreaked havoc with Bodie's already
strung-taut nerves; obviously, his partner had picked up at the living
room extension. "Does that mean your security was breached?"

"You know damn well it was."

"No. I only guessed." *He's all right! * "Put the kettle on, sunshine."
Bodie laughed unconvincingly. "I'll be there in twenty-no,
fifteen-minutes."

"Suit yourself," Doyle spat, and slammed down the receiver.

"Oh, I shall," Bodie mumbled to himself, unoffended. His partner was more
rattled than he was letting on. Together, they would be able to think this
through. Together-

Racing up to his bedroom, it occurred to Bodie that the creature might be
waiting for him outside. The thought brought him up sharp-but only for an
instant. Whatever Francesca Oldman's motive in sending that animal round
tonight, it had not been to lure them into the street to be murdered-they
both could have been effortlessly dispatched in their beds. The thought
made Bodie hiss-but spurred him to move even faster.

******

Despite imagining seething movement in every shadow-small or large-between
the street-door of his block of flats and the door of the silver Capri,
the brief walk proved uneventful. From outside the car, Bodie ran a torch
over the interior, and once certain that it harbored no toothy assassins,
he climbed inside and started the engine. Seconds later, he was on the
road. At half past three in the morning, the streets of London were mostly
untravelled. Bodie made the most of his solitude, cheerfully ignoring
speed limits and yellow and red lights. Fourteen minutes and twenty
seconds after Doyle had hung up on him, he arrived outside his partner's
building.

He pressed the bell to Doyle's flat, and presently his partner responded.
Upon hearing Bodie's voice, Doyle economically commanded him to "push."
Three flights of stairs later, Bodie was greeted by Doyle himself, his
face stubbled, robe hanging more than half open, and gun in hand.

"You can point that somewhere else," Bodie said tartly. He pushed the P38
to one side with a single finger. "Can I come in?"

"You're in." After a quick inspection of the outside corridor, Doyle
shoved the door to, threw the deadbolt and engaged the electronic
secondary.

Bodie's eyes roved from one corner of the foyer to the next, ending with
the door itself. There were no signs of tampering; the locks shone without
a hint of a scratch.

" 'S not here anymore-whoever it was." As always, Doyle had known
precisely what Bodie was doing.

"Not a who," Bodie said meaningfully. "A what."

Doyle grunted. Flagging Bodie to follow him into the living room, he said
with exasperation, "I'll give you coffee if you promise to make sense."

Contentedly trailing behind, Bodie silently savored the sight of his
rumpled partner. Long and lean, curls ebulliently disarrayed, hairy legs
exposed from thigh to heel, and shuffling like a geriatric patient on an
outing, Doyle was, in Bodie's opinion, absolute perfection. "You found
nothing, I take it?" he asked gently.

Two mugs waited on the sideboard, one with the handle of a spoon jutting
out of it. Doyle took up the recently heated kettle, ghostly wisps rising
from its metal snout, and sloshed water out of it. "Just my front door
hanging wide open. Tell me what's going on, Bodie, will you?"

"Not much more than that to tell," Bodie said. "Woke up to find the
security'd been overridden. Someone had got in without setting off the
alarms in HQ-*and* without waking me up."

Sparing him a disbelieving look, Doyle automatically added sugar and milk
to one of the mugs in very specific proportions. "*Something* woke you."
He shoved the sweetened coffee across the counter, heedless of the
scalding liquid that spilled over the rim.

"I- Well, I had a bad dream."

"Yeah?"

"And then I heard something. Y'know, footsteps." Bodie saw no reason to
describe the sensation of *presence* he had experienced.

"You saw someone?" Doyle blew on his own coffee and waved Bodie toward the
lounge.

"Some*thing*."

Pausing in the doorway, Doyle considered this. "Animal, vegetable, or
mineral? Though I think I already know."

"Animal." Bodie sat himself down on the sofa, eyes fixed on Doyle's
troubled face.

"The two-legged variety?"

"Four."

Doyle sipped from his coffee, offering no immediate comment. He sagged
onto the cushions not far from Bodie.

"One of your Borzoi," Bodie elaborated.

"A dog."

"A *big* dog."

"Silver?"

"Silver."

"There's not a dog alive can override a double-locked, electronically
monitored security system," Doyle asserted. He gave Bodie a sharp look.
"You *did* set yours?"

Bodie's sour expression answered Doyle's question. "Yeah, okay-doesn't
hurt to ask." A sudden grin smoothed his drawn features. "And thanks for
not mentioning the obvious."

Shrugging, Bodie said, "You've learned your lesson."

"Too true. I set mine as well, in case the question ever does crop up."

With the mug held close to his chest for warmth, Bodie muttered, "I'd just
like to know why. Neither of us was harmed; not even touched. We could've
been killed, y'know."

"Don't I just know it," Doyle assured him dourly. "Planting bugs, maybe?"

"With the dog as a diversion?"

"Possibly. Or maybe it was just an example of old-fashioned intimidation."

"It worked," Bodie said, deadpan.

"Yeah." Staring down into his mug, Doyle asked, "So, do you fancy turfing
Forensics out of their comfy beds? Get 'em started now?"

"No point. You've gone over your flat already; I've done mine." Bodie had
full confidence that Doyle's search had been every bit as thorough as his
own. "They're not likely to find anything other than a dog hair or two-and
those'll still be here in the morning."

"You really think that's all it was, then?" Doyle smothered a yawn.
"Intimidation?"

"What else?" Eyeing his partner closely, Bodie said, "You must've been
sleeping hard."

Chagrin drew the corners of Doyle's mouth downward. "Reckon so. Was the
phone that woke me."

He had made the admission, Bodie realized, only because he had been caught
out. "You sleepy?"

"Not just at the moment," Doyle said sardonically.

Rising from the sofa, Bodie plucked Doyle's half-empty mug out of his
hand. "Another?"

"No, thanks."

As he started for the kitchen, Bodie said over his shoulder, "I'm staying
here tonight-what's left of it, anyway."

"Afraid the midnight mutt will come calling again?"

"*You* didn't wake up the last time."

Purposeful footsteps sounded behind him. Standing at the sink, Bodie
innocently glanced round.

"My hero." Doyle's eyes sparked. "Go home, Bodie. I can look after
myself."

Bodie quietly announced, "It's tomorrow."

Doyle frowned. "Tomor-? Oh."

"*I'm* not sleepy either," Bodie said. He was watching Doyle's face,
trying to gauge his reaction.

"You mean-?" Doyle tipped his head in the direction of the bedroom.

"I mean."

The idea was given brief consideration. "Right. We did agree, didn't we?
Well-" Doyle gave his ear a pull. "You know where the bed is." Nimbly, he
stepped round Bodie and gave him a shove toward the door. "Go on, then."
Turning toward the sink, he picked up the two mugs and sloshed them in the
soaking water. "I'll follow directly."

Something had gone wrong. Bodie stared at the back of Doyle's head for a
long moment before obeying, an uneasy feeling twisting in his gut.

Once in Doyle's bedroom, he stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at
the jumbled covers, Doyle's pillow bearing the imprint of his head, the
pillow beside it untouched.

"So get 'em off," Doyle drawled from the doorway. "Can't fuck with your
clothes on. Not to best effect, anyway," he added with a crude laugh.

Bodie slowly looked back at him. Cast in shadow by the light from the
landing, Doyle's face was unreadable. "Nah," Bodie said huskily. "Forget
it, mate."

"No? You changed your mind?"

That chiding voice cut Bodie to the heart. "Just know where I'm not
wanted." He moved toward the door, expecting Doyle to step aside. When he
stood his ground, Bodie raised a brow at him, employing silence as a goad.

It worked: "You can't say I chickened out, Bodie."

"No. But I can say I've had more enthusiasm in a morgue."

It was a measure of Doyle's turmoil that a smart remark was not
forthcoming. "We're *friends*."

"Sex can be good between friends," Bodie argued good-naturedly.

"We're *partners*!"

"That wouldn't change."

Doyle's chin came up, eyes narrowed and filled with scorn.

Taking in a deep breath, Bodie sought to marshal his thoughts. "Look-just
let it go, eh?"

"Can you?" Doyle's voice was raw.

"If you want me to."

"And if I don't?" Defiance supplanted withering contempt in hard eyes.

"What *do* you want?" Bodie exclaimed.

"I-" The air rushed out of Doyle's lungs in a noisy *whoosh*. He threw up
his hands. "I-"

"Ray. Hey, mate-will you let me try something?"

Doyle only looked at him.

Very slowly, Bodie reached out and took hold of Doyle's wrists. He pulled
them down. "Trust me, sunshine," he said with a wryly affectionate smile.

Clearly uncertain, Doyle waited for Bodie to make the first move.

Letting go of sinewy wrists, Bodie raised one hand to Doyle's cheek,
curving his fingers round a whiskery jaw. Doyle flinched at the touch, but
made no effort to pull away. Letting the hand fall to Doyle's shoulder,
Bodie moved imperceptibly closer. His other arm slid round Doyle's waist,
and there it lay, unmoving.

"Okay?" he asked.

"What're you doing?"

Bodie bit his lip. "Holding you. Just holding you. I-" The words
disintegrated in his throat. "Oh, God, Ray!" he whispered. In seconds he
had dragged his partner's lanky frame into his embrace, arms tight around
him, his every sense filled with Doyle's being. "Was so glad to hear your
voice," Bodie choked out, "y'know, when I rang. Thought maybe- Was
afraid-" He abandoned the effort to speak intelligibly, overwhelmed by the
reality of being allowed to hold Doyle like this. His partner was solid
and alive. Warm and whole. Breathing, heart beating. *Alive. *

"Bodie."

The thrum of Doyle's voice right in his ear caused Bodie to shiver.

"Bodie."

"Sorry," Bodie muttered. He dropped his arms and stepped back. "I'll sleep
on the sofa. I'll get a spare-"

"Wait a minute," Doyle said sharply.

Warily Bodie looked up into his partner's face.

"It's *my* turn to try something. Fair?"

A little nervously, Bodie dumbly nodded his head.

"I thought you only wanted a quick fuck," Doyle said bluntly. "Never
occurred to me you might want what *I* want." He cupped Bodie's face
between both hands. Holding him immobile, he lowered his mouth to Bodie's
lips.

Doyle's kiss was slow, searching, and persuasively tender. Without
thought, Bodie opened to him, welcoming his invasion. He denied his
partner nothing, implicitly trusting him even when Doyle's touch became
somewhat rougher-and considerably more passionate.

"Bodie-" Doyle gasped. "Don't hold back, mate." Was that a note of anxiety
in his voice? "If this is really what you want- Ah!"

Bodie's mouth dropped to Doyle's neck, where it hungrily kissed and nipped
at warm, vulnerable flesh. At the same time he slid both hands underneath
Doyle's robe, fingers spread wide across bony ribs. One hand worked around
and upward, following the ridge of Doyle's spine, stopping at the base of
his skull and there curving round his neck, supporting his head; the other
fell to the small of his back, fingertips gliding over downy plains and
rising curves before drifting lower still.

Doyle shuddered as Bodie's hand molded itself to one buttock. He crowded
nearer, groin to groin. Bodie moaned under his breath: Doyle was hard, his
erection discernible through the silk of his robe and the corduroy of
Bodie's trousers. Heart pounding, Bodie brought his hand round to the
smooth flatness of Doyle's abdomen.

Doyle jerked away. He was breathing hard, eyes wild in a flushed face.

"Ray?" Unthinkingly, Bodie followed him.

Doyle threw up a hand. When Bodie hesitated, Doyle came close and began
another long, sensuous kiss. His fingers fell first to Bodie's belt which
he deftly unbuckled, then to the clasp at his waistband. As in a dream,
Bodie felt Doyle's hand slip inside his pants. Doyle touched him, a
fleeting touch, insubstantial. Craving more, Bodie pushed up against him,
hips thrusting. But Doyle drew back from him once more.

A small growl of frustration tumbled from Bodie's lips. Doyle smiled
vaguely. He took Bodie's hand and tugged him toward the bed. "C'mon,
sunshine. 'M not calling a halt. Only- It's cold, and the bed's warm.
Okay?"

The day's concerns were forgotten as Doyle finished stripping him at the
side of his bed. Then, kissing and touching, hands and mouths exploring,
they moved together onto the mattress.

Given their instinctive knowledge of one another, there was no surprise in
discovering that their partnership worked as effortlessly here as
everywhere else. Unthinkingly, they knew how best to serve each other's
needs. There was no resistance, no hesitancy. As their first bout of
passion swept them up-and up-neither forgot the underlying affinity that
had long ago forged their bond-and they made love as friends, with total
acceptance and ready affection.

******

*Thursday*

"It's dawn."

"Can't be. We haven't slept yet."

"Whose fault is that?" Doyle asked. He took hold of the edge of the covers
and lifted them away, revealing their nakedness. Disregarding Bodie's
whimpering complaint, Doyle heaved himself up on one elbow and proceeded
to examine Bodie's body both with eyes and the tips of inquisitive
fingers.

"What are you doing?"

"Having a butcher's. Want to see what I've got myself into."

"Haven't *got* yourself into anything," Bodie reminded him. He pushed his
head up against Doyle's chest, nuzzling a chill-puckered nipple with warm
lips.

Sliding his hand under Bodie's genitals, Doyle slowly enclosed the lax
penis in the wonderfully snug tunnel of his fist. "That's certainly true."

"But you can if you want to," Bodie promised.

"Mean that?"

" 'M looking forward to it-I think."

Ignoring the doubt in Bodie's voice, Doyle said with just a hint of
hauteur, "We are going to carry on doing this." For all his assertiveness,
Doyle avoided meeting Bodie's eyes. His own downcast, he watched instead
the slowly responding appendage, which had now begun to lengthen and fill
out.

"Okay," Bodie agreed complaisantly.

"And birds?"

"What about 'em?" Bodie pushed upward to kiss Doyle's mouth. Since no
objection was made, he made a meal of his partner, hedonistically savoring
the taste and texture of him. He was rapidly rousing under Doyle's
continued manipulation, a feat he would have thought impossible five
minutes before. In fact, after the previous night in Doyle's bed-could
they have done all that in only three hours?-he had to assume that Doyle
must be capable of raising the dead.

"I'd react badly," Doyle articulated, once he was free to speak.

"So would I. We're giving them up, then?"

"Yes."

"You don't sound too put out."

"I'm crushed. Lie back, will you?" Triumph and something that might have
been awe underlay Doyle's husky voice. He took his time stroking and
kneading Bodie's body while sampling random morsels of flesh with mouth
and tongue, all the while gravitating downward. Inevitably, Bodie's
tumescence came under this same scrupulous oral inspection. Before long he
had been relished, licked, nuzzled, and sucked, no aspect of his straining
organ left unexplored. And then Doyle settled down to work.

Bodie drifted on molten sensation. Fingers buried in his partner's curly
hair, his hands rode the slow up-and-down motion of Doyle's head-up and
down, up and down, pace increasing...slowing...increasing again, that
pliant mouth somehow, improbably, knowing *exactly* how much pressure to
apply, and where. Bodie's hands stilled only when the instant came upon
him, which considering his depleted state occurred with most impressive
speed. A moment passed, an hour, an age. Shattered, Bodie lay immobile,
while Doyle thoughtfully lapped him clean.

Sometime later, half asleep, he was urged to roll onto his stomach. Bodie
groggily complied, spreading his legs and shifting up a little at Doyle's
prompting. He shivered involuntarily as his partner pressed down upon him
and placed a breathy kiss behind one ear, raising a flurry of gooseflesh
all over Bodie's body. Doyle's encompassing warmth and bristling chest
hair felt good upon Bodie's back; the hard, velvet length of him gliding
unthreateningly between his buttocks, intriguing; and the rush of his
breath, hot-like an August breeze scorching the sensitive skin at the nape
of his neck. Even the sting of Doyle's teeth cutting into his shoulder as
he thrust harder and faster was a sensation Bodie would commit to memory
for later review.

It was not long before Doyle gave a soft, gasping groan. Bodie felt the
twitches and tugs, as well as a spreading dampness, that betrayed his
partner's orgasm-and wondered, with some bemusement, what it would feel
like to have those same sensations *inside* him.

Collapsing heavily upon Bodie's back, Doyle let out a long, sated sigh.
"Bloody perfect," he murmured.

As exhausted as his partner, Bodie only smiled into the pillow and fell
instantly asleep.

******

Bodie settled the handset in its cradle for the third time that morning,
then sat staring with intense dislike at the small message slip which held
pride of place on top of the desk. From the corridor he heard voices:
Doyle and a woman Bodie recognized. Upon arrival at HQ, they had gone
separate ways-Doyle to Cowley's office for a word or two in Betty's ear;
Bodie to their shared cubicle to use the phone and start in on any
paperwork that had appeared in their brief absence.

The woman laughed; Doyle's footsteps grew louder with his approach while
the clicking of heels faded in the opposite direction.

Doyle appeared in the opening. "Mmmm mm mmm," he announced through teeth
clenched shut on a slip of paper.

Expression neutral, Bodie reached out and plucked the note from Doyle's
mouth, leaving a corner caught between his lips. While Doyle attempted to
spit the remnant out more or less gracefully, Bodie relieved one of his
partner's hands of its burden of coffee; the tea, he knew, was for Doyle.
Bodie said, "Repeat all last transmission, over." He took a slurp and
closed his eyes as the hot liquid, bearing its most important ingredient,
caffeine, melted a path down his throat. "Didn't understand a word of
that, mate."

"You're lucky," Doyle repeated with excruciatingly precise enunciation,
"that I believe in fidelity." He rescued his note from Bodie's mangling
fingers and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

"Why's that?"

With a sniff, Doyle cocked his head toward the corridor. "That's the
second offer I've had this morning."

"Offer? Angela, you mean?" Bodie asked, making the obvious connection; he
had recognized the pool secretary's voice. He arranged his hands until
both forefingers and thumbs formed a frame of sorts around the message
slip that lay flat in front of him.

"Yeah. Of a healing fuck."

Unconcerned, Bodie tolerantly awaited the explanation he knew would be
forthcoming.

"Y'know, to put me back on the straight and narrow."

"Oh, that." Quirking an ironic brow, Bodie commiserated, "Me, too."

"Who?"

"Ursula. Only she suggested a three-way."

"You, me, and her?"

"Right. I don't, however, think she had healing in mind. Who else? You
said you'd had two offers."

Doyle slouched in the empty chair, wrapped his hands round his beaker, and
spotted on the breast of his shirt the wedge of paper that had gotten
caught in his mouth. He puffed hard. The scrap spun into the air then
slowly wafted floorward. "Lucas." Eyes glinting, Doyle grinned. "He
suggested a three-way, too."

"Bloody hell." Bodie took refuge in his coffee.

Bracing himself against the edge of the desk, Doyle leaned the chair
backward on its rear legs. "Told him no, in case you're wondering; Angela,
too, for that matter."

"And Ursula," Bodie conceded, meeting Doyle's smirk with one of his own.
"There's more, though, isn't there?"

"You always could tell. Yeah. The Cow wanted a word when I looked in on
Betty."

"About?"

"Pulling us off Livi's case."

Bodie protested, "What?"

"You heard. There's a big op about to go critical. He's given us one more
day to tie everything up."

"And if we can't?"

"The other op's more important. Says Cowley." To placate his partner,
Doyle added, "*Bloody* important, apparently." A flick of serpentine brows
offered the equivalent of a shrug. "He even cancelled Livi's inside
protection, Bodie. Said he had no choice."

Eyes closed, Bodie sat back. The chair groaned under his weight.
"Wonderful."

With two fingers, Doyle withdrew the message slip from his pocket; he held
it up for display. "*And* Francesca Oldman has made a formal complaint
about our Forensics people taking bite patterns from all of her animals
first thing this morning without her consent."

"Thought she might-and she didn't look one to procrastinate. Morrie'd
already set out when I rang to report the break-ins at our flats. Must've
descended on her kennel like a plague of locusts at pearly dawn."

"In his usual delicate fashion. Cowley said she's very influential;
several MPs are reported to have added their objections on her behalf
regarding our `unwarranted presumption.' "

Darting a glance at his watch, Bodie exclaimed softly, "By ten past nine?
She *must* be influential!"

Beaker at his mouth, Doyle took a long swallow. "According to Betty,
Livi's talking."

"She's out of the coma? When did that happen? What's she saying?"

Smiling tolerantly, Doyle put the beaker on the table. "Well, she isn't
really-more of a `twilight' consciousness, so her doctor says; middle of
the night, twoish; and, `Oldman...dog.' "

"That's all? `Oldman...dog'?" Bodie complained.

" 'S all anyone could make out for certain. That was Murphy, by the way.
He was on duty at the time."

"Murphy's reliable. He may even have got it right."

Purposefully, Doyle eased his chair forward. He jabbed a finger toward the
slip of paper Bodie had been spinning round and round between his hands.
"What've you got there, then?"

Bodie's gaze fell to the message slip. "Charles York rang in just after
two-immediately he arrived back in London. He's asked that we meet him at
the crematorium."

Meticulously, Doyle said, "When you say `we,' you mean CI5, right? Not you
and me specifically?"

"Actually, I mean us specifically. Asked for us by name, he did." Bodie
let the import of this sink in. "What d'you suppose he knows?"

"Whatever Quayle told him, I expect. About us-and this bloody case."

"Maybe he can tell us what Quayle didn't have a chance to: that Francesca
Oldman has trained one, or more, of her dogs to kill on command."

Shifting uneasily, Doyle looked Bodie full in the face. "Maybe. What
time's the cremation?"

"Eleven."

"And he rang here at two this morning?" Pulling a pained face, Doyle
sympathized, "He can't have got much sleep."

"No." The word was weighted with no special emphasis. But Bodie's eyes
sought out Doyle's, met, and held them. "Common complaint, just lately."

"Prefer our reasons to his," Doyle commented lightly.

"Too right." Mechanically, Bodie went on, "Morrie's promised the bite
pattern reports by this afternoon-first thing. We already know Livi's
wounds match those of the deceased MP, by the way." Bodie pointed to a
typed report lying amidst the detritus littering the head of the desk.
"And your dog count at Ladyhaye tallies with the number Lucy Flower gave
me-including `Domoboy,' or whatever the bugger's name was-y'know, the
one-"

"Yeah, the dog decorating the floor in Miss Oldman's study."

"Him. Until we have something to confirm our suspicions, we can't make a
bloody move."

"Even though we *know* it must be her-Francesca Oldman-who's behind it
all."

"Even though." Bodie watched his partner give in to a racking yawn,
followed by an elaborate writhing stretch that was so methodically
all-encompassing, not a single muscle could have been overlooked. An image
drawn from recent memory came into Bodie's mind: *Doyle, lying beside him,
long and sinuous. The impetus to touch was irresistible. Bodie's hand
moved up from its resting place on Doyle's hip to his chest, up, fingers
swimming through soft dark chest hair, to the base of Doyle's throat.
There his hand came to a rest, surrounding that strongly muscled column.
Throughout, Doyle watched him, eyes clear, trusting, filled with new
tranquillity-but very little sleep, of which they had stolen an hour, no
more, between them. Free to do as he would, and revelling in that freedom,
Bodie bent forward to kiss him. There was no passion at the source of his
action, only a well-established affection. So long as Doyle was agreeable,
this was a new practice he intended to make habitual. *

*"Hm, very nice," Doyle murmured thickly. *

"Bodie."

The familiar voice broke through his wool-gathering; the image broke and
reformed-still Doyle, curly locks, drowsy green eyes, provocative
mouth-all *his*.

"You were a long way away," Doyle remarked.

"Remembering," Bodie explained simply, "this morning."

"Ah."

There had been no tedious discussion regarding their comportment in
public, on the job, or in the company of their mates-nor would there be.
In this new aspect of their lives, as in all other facets of their shared
existence, they were in total, intuitive accord.

"What d'you say we pay Livi a visit?" Bodie asked. He pushed away from the
desk and took to his feet.

"Can't hurt. From there to the crematorium?"

"We'll stop in at the hospital cafeteria first. I'm starved."

Patting his stomach, Doyle murmured with some surprise, "And me."

******

Waiting in the car park outside the modern building that housed the
crematorium where Trevor Quayle's earthly remains were to be reduced to
ashes, Bodie and Doyle watched the departure of his mourners under a
gun-metal sky. They appeared in clumps, two, three, sometimes more, all
somberly dressed, all converging upon the black-clad man who received them
at the door. And all-including their greeter-shared a single expression
mixed with grief: incredulity.

After several minutes, the mourners began to disperse, filing away toward
their cars, which ranged from a raggedy Mini to an enormous, plushly
appointed Mercedes limousine. Before long, only the dark-haired man with
angular features remained: Charles York.

From the edge of the car park, reporters for the tabloids as well as the
respectable press impatiently directed their photographers to move in on
him. As they approached, bulbs flashing, Doyle and Bodie stepped out of
the silver Capri. They were prepared to delay their own interview no more
than a few minutes for the sake of the media vultures. But Charles York
adroitly dismissed his uninvited callers with a few words which neither
agent was near enough to hear. Polite, but adamant, he sent them on their
way-and in short order, they begrudgingly took their leave. His
expressionless gaze traveled to the Capri, settled on the two men standing
beside it, and unhurriedly took their measure.

"I think he knows us," Doyle said.

"*I'm* beginning to think we're famous," muttered Bodie.

Beckoned forward by a flick of the hand, they started across the car park
toward the paved entry of the building. Their footfalls crunched upon
gravel, mingling with those of the thwarted reporters who wandered toward
their waiting cars. The CI5 agents were eyed in passing, but seemingly
rejected as unnewsworthy material. Theirs were faces known only to Trevor
Quayle-and his lover-and Bodie would not have preferred it otherwise.

When they were a few feet away, Charles York stepped forward to meet them.
"Hello," he said simply. As he took each man's hand in turn, applying a
firm shake, he spoke their names, "Bodie. Doyle."

"We've never met, Mr. York," Bodie said mildly. "How is it you know us?"

"Trevor, of course. He used to discuss everything with me." The actor
skillfully ordered his features into a mask both reassuring and
noncommittal. "I've seen your photos. He has several, y'know." The facade
wavered, York hearing his lapse; as quickly, he recovered. "They're locked
away in a safe deposit box. You needn't worry now they'll ever come to
light."

"From what Mr. Quayle said, that was never a matter of concern."

"No," York agreed seriously. "He thought you exceptional." Tipping his
head with its thatch of straight, dark brown hair to one side, he
murmured, "And he thought you both most attractive. Perhaps that
influenced his judgment."

For a man who had just suffered a tragic loss, Charles York was well in
control of his emotions and himself. He stood just on six feet, lean,
neatly proportioned, exuding cosmopolitan gentility in both dress and
manner. Yet his eyes were puffy and red-tinged, and the harsh lines in his
face looked to have been carved there, even though they were scars of
grief rather than age.

"Did Trevor tell you about Francesca Oldman?" Bodie asked.

"Yes," York replied. "And I will tell you all that you wish to know-" He
paused, giving emphasis to his next words, "-*more*, I fear, than you may
wish to know. But- I should like to ask some questions of my own first, if
I may?"

"Here?"

York gestured toward the building. "Inside. There's a place we can talk
undisturbed, out of this terrible wind. It has teeth, I think."

They were greeted at the door by the director of the facility, who acceded
to York's request with haste. He ushered them into a medium-size
chamber-used, he informed them, for viewing the deceased, secular
services, and, as in their case, private conference-and promised to
provide tea and coffee forthwith.

York thanked him, then watched until the man left the room. When the door
had closed with a decisive click, ensuring their solitude, the actor
turned searching eyes onto the two agents. "Please," he said quietly,
"tell me how Trevor died."

"He-" Doyle cast a sidelong glance at Bodie. "He was attacked by a large
dog."

"Dog."

"Yes. A-" Bodie stumbled, "A Borzoi, we think. That's a Russian Wolf-"

"Hound. I know the breed," York interrupted. "Go on."

"We found him on the floor, in the doorway of his flat."

"He was dead by then?" York asked stonily.

"As near as," Doyle replied. "He tried to speak- But his throat-"

"I see." York folded his hands together on the table in front of him.
"Could you make out what it was he was trying to say, Mr. Doyle?"

"Not really. His mouth moved like this." Doyle's lips described the
motions. "We thought he might have been trying to say `woman.' "

"Though it could've been something else. `Why me?' looks similar, for
example," said Bodie in the interest of accuracy.

He was accorded a glacial, blue stare. "The word was `woman,' I suspect,"
York contended. "He was trying to warn you."

"Of Francesca Oldman?"

There came a rap at the door. Their tea and coffee appeared, delivered by
a young woman. After smoothly placing her burden in the center of the
small table at which they sat, she effaced herself with a promise to
return should they require, or wish, anything else. The door closed
soundlessly behind her.

"Yes," Charles York continued, as though there had been no interruption.
"Francesca Oldman. You seem quite certain of the type of dog involved.
Have you seen it by any chance?"

"Only Bodie's had that pleasure," Doyle replied. "Twice now, in fact."

"I've seen a dog," Bodie modified. "A Borzoi, I think, but it's larger
than most of that breed, according to Miss Oldman's assistant, who says
they seldom stand higher than thirty-three inches."

"Describe it."

A touch annoyed by York's peremptory manner, Bodie drawled, "It looks like
a Borzoi; y'know, the long nose-" A glance in Doyle's direction, "-sorry,
muzzle; the shape; overall configuration. Stands about so high. This one
has long, silver hair-catches the light. Quite distinctive."

"Was it male or female?"

"Never got close enough to tell. But I think-"

"-that it was female?"

Features carefully schooled to impassivity, Bodie demurred, "Is that what
I was going to say?"

A frown spasmed across York's face. "Forgive me, Mr. Bodie. I do not mean
to be impolite. I-I am not at my best today."

The actor's hands were trembling, Bodie saw, and of a sudden he knew an
unwanted empathy for his interrogator, this actor who eschewed the
limelight save when he was acting, this man who had lost his lover, his
partner, of fifteen years. His control was to be admired; though in his
place, Bodie had no doubt he would prove himself equally removed. Yet,
there was no questioning the cost exacted by such a facade.

He did not envy Charles York.

"The dog may have been female," Bodie relented. "Does it matter?"

"If Trev's theory holds any water, yes. He believed it was a female."

"Have some coffee, Mr. York," Doyle suggested, already pouring a fluted
china cup nearly full. He added sugar and milk in generous quantities,
then handed cup and saucer to the actor.

"Thank you. I- It's been all go. I haven't had a chance-"

Shoving a serviette piled high with a random selection of biscuits into
the man's reach, Doyle said, "You know Olivia Wingate, don't you, sir?"

Carefully lowering his cup, York said, "Yes, of course. She and Trevor
read English at college together."

"You knew Trevor had contacted her?"

"Yes."

"Yet you asked for Bodie and me this morning. Why is that?"

"Antony Clarke-a close friend-tried to reach her, to inform her of the
funeral arrangements. He finally got hold of Kevin Bishop, her boyfriend,
who told him that Miss Wingate had been hospitalized recently. She, too,
was attacked by a large dog, I understand. Has she been able to describe
what happened to her?"

"Not yet," Doyle replied grimly. "She's only now starting to come out of a
coma."

"But she *is* safe? If she can identify her attacker, it is imperative-"

"She's safe," Bodie asserted. "We looked in on her just before coming
round here; sleeping like a babe in her mum's arms. There's an agent with
her round the clock. She'll be all right."

"I hope," York muttered, "one agent will be enough." He glanced down; the
mound of biscuits caught his eye, and he frowned, as though repulsed by
the sight of them. "Did- Did Trevor seem-frightened when you spoke with
him?"

"About Olivia? Yes, a bit."

A muscle twitched at the corner of York's mouth. "A bit." He set the
delicate cup gently on the table and spread his hands before him, a
strangely disarming gesture. "I must tell you that was unlike him. Utterly
unlike him." York's hollow eyes willed them to believe this. "On the
contrary, Trevor was the most fearless man I've ever known. It's important
that you know that. As a freelance writer, he traveled everywhere-Northern
Ireland, the Middle East. He was wounded, did you know? Lost rather a
large chunk of his left leg to a piece of shrapnel. You won't have
noticed; he made a point of compensating for it. No limp-though it was a
ghastly-looking thing." The actor gazed emptily into the half-full cup.
"Trev requested Miss Wingate's assistance as a last resort. He recognized
that he was out of his depth."

"I'm afraid we really don't know a great deal about him, Mr. York. That's
one reason we were hoping to get in touch with you as soon as possible."
Bodie regretted his words as soon as they were spoken; he had not intended
the implied rebuke.

York closed his eyes, then covered them with his hands. "I did what I
thought best," he said firmly. "Trevor was dead. And I-I still had a job
to do." His hands fell away. "Perhaps, in my-" Head bowed, he said
hoarsely, "Perhaps my reasoning has been flawed. I ought to have realized
sooner that others might be at risk. In any case," he said, very softly,
"I knew that to be true this morning when I arrived at Trevor's flat."

Unaccountably stricken at the thought that evidence of Quayle's dying
might have been left for York to find, Doyle ejaculated, "You don't mean-
That is, surely, the place had been-" 

"Cleaned? Yes, of course. Friends had seen to that. No. It was the
permanency of it all. The realization. Seeing him this morning- So like,
and yet not-" Charles York heaved a sigh, dragged an unsteady hand across
his face and drew himself up straight. "You will not believe what I am
about to say," he intoned with quiet certainty. "You will *not* believe
me-but, for your sakes and mine, you *must*."

Casting a quick glance at his conspicuously expressionless partner, Bodie
said, "Right. Go on, then, Mr. York. Please tell us everything."

******

"Light's flashing," Doyle remarked unnecessarily, his partner a step ahead
of him, key even then twisting in the lock of the driver's door.

With easy grace, Bodie simultaneously plopped his backside on the
patterned seat, took the microphone out of its holder, and stretched
across to unlatch the passenger door. "3.7 to Base."

The transceiver crackled at once. "Been trying to reach you lads. Where
are you?"

"Hazelden Crematorium. What's up?"

"Two things. Morrie's not best pleased with you lot-appears he wasted his
time and the taxpayers' money this morning."

"No bite pattern matches, you mean?"

"That's what I mean. Concerning which, Francesca Oldman had a word in the
Old Man's ear-in person, like. Stormed into HQ like she owned the place.
Mr. Cowley was not best pleased, either."

"Bloody hell," Doyle breathed. He turned his face into his fist and stared
out through the passenger window at the surrounding field.

Chagrin and disappointment determinedly nonexistent in his voice, Bodie
calmly asked, "The second thing?"

"Livi's asking for you and Doyle."

"How long since?"

"Half an hour-a little less."

"Cowley knows?"

"Of course. Surprised you couldn't hear the cheering coming down the
crematorium flue."

"Right. We're on our way. Hang on-"

"Yeah?"

"Miss Oldman wasn't still in the building when word came round; y'know,
about Livi?"

"Funny you should ask." The disembodied voice gave a slight laugh. "She
was, in fact. But don't worry on that account. Cowley put her off the
track. Told her there was a lottery pool-CI5 and some other organizations,
and CI5 won. Wish it were true."

"She bought it?"

"Why not? Wasn't her dogs, remember?"

"Thanks, mate. Maybe we should hand the case over to you." Bodie's hand
worked the key in the ignition. "3.7 out."

Reversing back-wheels spat gravel and dirt high into the air behind them.
Lowering his hand, Doyle gave his partner a considering look. "What *are*
you worried about? York's mad as a hatter. He never put the wind up you
with that bit of nonsense, did he?"

" 'Course not. But Oldman's behind this somehow. And she won't be put off
with some stupid explanation about CI5 winning a lottery."

Head shaking wonderingly from side to side, Doyle remarked, "I ask you, a
*werewolf*."

"Grief can do strange things to a person." The nose of the car hovered
just shy of the flow of traffic. At the first possible opportunity, Bodie
bulled his way in, accelerating until the front grille of the Capri was
virtually riding on the bumper of the car ahead of them.

"You're worried."

"A bit. Livi's asked to see us. Which means she knows we've taken over the
case."

Doyle gave his watch a glance. "Murph's with her by now. It's his shift
till tomorrow morning." One side of his mouth twisted upward. "York's an
actor, mate. Overimaginative. The artistic soul, and all that."

"I know, Doyle. Still- It would answer a load of questions, wouldn't it?"

"For example?"

"Why the dog we've seen-*I've seen*-doesn't look like any of the ones at
Oldman's kennel or her Chelsea digs."

"Easy," Doyle said assuredly. "Either she's using a temporary
coloring-wash on, wash off-or it's not even one of her dogs. That would
also account for the size discrepancy. What else?"

"The bloody thing getting into our flats. Werewolves," Bodie almost
stumbled on the word, "are supposed to be supernatural, yes?" He shrugged,
making it clear that this was all for the sake of argument.

"More likely Oldman's got the assistance of someone extremely
knowledgeable about sophisticated electronics. Besides, you said yourself
you didn't *actually* see the beast in the flat."

"Felt it pass," Bodie said stubbornly.

"Insufficient evidence. Next?"

"Trevor Quayle-Mr. Fearless, according to Charles York-handing a
sensational story over to a CI5 agent."

"C'mon, Bodie: Where murder's involved, strategic withdrawal's the better
part of valor. Anything else?"

"What Olivia was muttering this morning, `Oldman...dog'-maybe she meant
Oldman *is* the dog. And maybe that's what Trevor Quayle was trying to say
before he died."

"Pure conjecture." Doyle laughed out loud. "Maybe we ought to ask Morrie
to take *Oldman's* bite sample!" When Bodie yielded a grin, Doyle went on,
"Is that all, then?"

"It would account for the various ways all those MPs died. Heart attack,
suicide-"

"What about HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES, eh?" Doyle interrupted. "Use a
bloody great dog to scare the wits out of someone. And she probably didn't
use a dog all the time-the shooting death, for example. But we're *not*
after a *werewolf*, for Christ's sake. There's no such thing, Bodie."

"Okay, okay. That's all, your Honor. I yield to the court."

They drove on for some minutes in silence, Doyle ostensibly watching the
scenery pass by. Out of the corner of his eye, when the traffic allowed,
Bodie watched his partner instead, the lanky length of him slumped
indolently in his seat, the heel of one leg hooked on the dashboard. He
was deceptively still, only the fingers of his right hand idly moving as
they traced the bulge formed by the wad of notes buried in his pocket. It
crossed Bodie's mind that he hoped Doyle would soon be successful in the
purchase of his beloved bike. That unsightly lump spoiled his view.

Doyle suddenly turned toward him. "D'you really *believe* any of that
rubbish?" he demanded.

" 'Course not," Bodie replied placidly. "Winding you up, that's all." He
felt the weight of his partner's stare for some seconds.

"York believes it."

"Like I said, grief-"

"Yeah." Doyle looked out the window again. "They really loved each other,
y'know?"

"Is that so surprising?"

"Fifteen years. 'S a long time."

Aware that his mouth had gone dry, Bodie asked, "Is that what you want,
mate? Fifteen years?"

Doyle turned to face him. "Longer."

"Till death us do part?"

"Yes."

Smiling to himself at the note of defiance in Doyle's voice, Bodie said
simply, "I do. You?"

"Till death us do part," Doyle agreed with satisfaction.

"Right," Bodie said gravely. Inside, he was soaring.

******

The car rolled into the drive leading to the hospital car park twenty-five
minutes later under an increasingly lowering sky. Freezing rain whipped by
gusting winds pelted the building as they surfaced from the underground
stair in the main lobby of the hospital.

Several elevator stops later, they found Murphy, tall and expressionless,
standing outside the door to Olivia Wingate's private room. At sight of
Bodie and Doyle, he gave a weary, welcoming smile. "The lovebirds," he
droned.

"It's formal now," Doyle said, flipping a ringless ring finger into the
air for emphasis. "I expect something quite impressive here very soon."

"Best thing for you, Ray," Murphy said charitably. "Taking your sort off
the streets."

"He doesn't believe me." Doyle turned wounded eyes Bodie's way. "Tell
him."

Reaching for the door handle, Bodie said, " 'S true, mate. Doyle's
promised *me* a sapphire to match my eyes." He fluttered them winningly at
Murphy while his partner sputtered in the background.

"Sapphire! Don't remember *anything* about-"

Murphy placed a hand flat against the door, holding it shut. "Not just
yet, eh?"

"She wants to see us. We were summoned."

"I know, I know. *I'm* the one's been listening to her babble for the last
hour. No, there's a nurse in there with her just now. Asked me to ensure
her privacy for a few minutes."

"A nurse." Bodie said, suddenly tense.

"Just a nurse- has your hearing gone, along with your senses, man? You and
Doyle-you *are* joking, right?"

"What'd she look like?" asked Doyle, starkly.

"Young. Pretty. Wearing the usual rig. Had her name on it and everything.
`F. Starik'-noticed it because it's Russian: Means `old man.' Thought it
was a hell of a coincidence, what with Francesca *Oldman*, and all."

"You've seen her before?"

"Well, no. But-"

"*Jesus! *" A split-second later, gun in hand, Bodie brought one foot up
and kicked in the door. It crashed against the inside wall. The wood
sheared away from the metal hinges, bounced once, then came to rest at a
sharp angle on its side.

Doyle caught his breath; Murphy's incipient objection concerning Bodie's
cavalier use of violence was cut off mid-word. "My God," he said instead.

The inside of the room had been transformed. The bedclothes, the walls,
the floor-even the window, at some distance from the bed-were covered in a
fine, red spray. Olivia Wingate lay unmoving in the center of the
mattress. Her hospital gown, once a pale, pleasant green, now was soaked
through from neck to waist, as obscenely liquid and dark as the bottom of
the Thames. The lush stench of concentrated gore was nauseating; coupled
with the grisly appearance of the room, it fairly overwhelmed the senses.

Bodie moved first. Gingerly, he stepped across the threshold, then tracked
slowly inward, taking care to keep the bed between him and the far side of
the room. He heard Doyle swing wide to his left, glimpsing him out of the
corner of his eye. Murphy was behind them, soundlessly bringing up the
rear.

At the top of the bed, Bodie made a hasty visual examination of the dead
woman. There was no indication of a struggle; Olivia's murderer must have
approached without alerting her to anything amiss-or surely the woman
would have cried out for assistance. Death, Bodie therefore presumed, had
come swiftly and efficiently enough to silence an injured woman while her
protectors stood just beyond the closed door.

"Come out," Murphy said, affably. "We know you're still here."

For all that he spoke quietly, the sound of Murphy's voice set Bodie's
nerve endings atwitch.

"Murph-"

Doyle was given no opportunity to finish his sentence: From beneath the
foot of the bed, a huge, blood-smeared *thing* burst forth. Doyle cried
out a warning; braced in a firing stance, and in line for a perfect shot,
he loosed only one round before the creature hurled itself at Murphy who
stood in its way, in front of the opening. In that same instant, Murphy
pulled the trigger of his Browning. The dull *thuck* of both bullets
plowing into their target was plainly heard, if not seen-yet the animal
scarcely seemed to register their impact, smashing into the tall agent and
dashing him to the floor. It bounded through the opening and charged into
the corridor, Doyle fast on its feathery tail.

"Inform Cowley!" Bodie shouted, leaving Murphy to regain his feet on his
own. Doyle was already half-way down the wide corridor; there was no time
to spare.

"Damn it, Ray, wait for me!" The words were muttered under Bodie's breath
as he saw Doyle vanish through the swinging door that led to the
stairwell. Casting a last glance behind him, Bodie saw a number of people
converging on Olivia's room-the reports from the two weapons along with
the din of forced entry would undoubtedly draw them like flies. If Murphy
needed help-if he were badly injured-they would see to him.

In the stairwell, he heard the irregular *thump-thump-thump* of Doyle's
feet plunging down several steps at once. Bodie followed suit, determined
to catch him up. A very near miss slowed him just a little. With his neck
broken he should do Doyle no good at all.

"Bodie, third floor!" The voice wafted up to him from some distance; Bodie
deduced unhappily that he had lost more ground than he had reckoned.
Pushing himself to the edge of recklessness, Bodie reached the next floor
just as one of two doors that opened off the landing swung shut. Had he
been an instant later, he would have missed that slight, betraying motion.

Shoving through, he came within inches of bowling over a white-smocked
orderly juggling a recently disturbed armful of sheets and towels.
Heedless of the man's cry of surprise and indignation, Bodie scoured both
ends of the corridor, spying the heel of a trainer as it disappeared round
the far corner. Bodie threw himself past the man and took up pursuit once
more.

To his relief, he found Doyle only a short distance away down the
adjoining corridor, standing at ready outside a closed door. A jerk of the
head told Bodie all he needed to know. Shifting into position at one side
of the outer frame, he watched as his partner prepared to breach the
entry.

"Here, you!" a sharp voice cried out. "You lads can't go in there-that's
the ladies' loo!"

Doyle sprang forward, planting his foot dead center in the door. It gave
way before his weight, swinging wide on its hinges. He swooped inside,
carefully remaining in Bodie's sight at all times. With his free hand, he
gestured Bodie to join him.

Long and narrow, the room disclosed four, freestanding washing-up sinks
positioned along the wall opposite the entry, and four toilet stalls
against the wall adjacent to that. At the end of the bank of toilets,
directly across from where they stood, was a closed door.

Systematically, Doyle inspected each lavatory, while Bodie guarded the
now-sealed entrance. Rumbling confusion could be heard increasing in
volume in the corridor without. Bodie checked the lock; the room was
secured from outside interference.

"F. Starik went into Livi's room," Bodie said in a velvety whisper.

"And a flaming great dog came out. I know." Gaunt with tension, Doyle
padded toward the untried inner door.

"The window wasn't open."

"Noticed that, too. Could've been, though. Long enough to get the brute
inside. Maybe she fooled Livi, opened the window to let the dog in, closed
it, and went under the bed. I didn't look, did you?" A long-fingered hand
slowly surrounded the handle.

"Hardly. In any case, it wasn't Francesca Oldman-Cowley would've seen to
it that Murph was given a description."

Glancing over his shoulder to see that Bodie was in place, Doyle began to
open the door. Voice low and hoarse, he suggested, "Your Lucy Flower,
perhaps?"

"Not *my* Lucy Flower," Bodie muttered peevishly.

The door gave way at Doyle's urging. Beyond the threshold was another
chamber. It appeared to match the dimensions of the lavatory, but this
area was quite obviously used for storage. Shelves piled high with towels,
bed linen, and hospital gowns obscured three walls. A large linen
collection trolley, partially filled, waited ready in the shadows at the
farthest end of the room. Again, a door took up the opposite inside
corner. It stood open.

Running water and a clear, high voice humming an unremarkable tune were
audible from the next chamber. Bodie and Doyle advanced into the huge
toweling cupboard, locked the door at their backs, and swiftly proceeded
to make a comprehensive examination of the towels, sheets, and personnel
and patient apparel stocked there, lest someone-or something-be hiding
among the deep, fabric mounds. Doyle put a foot into the bottom of the
cloth-draped trolley; barely laden, it offered no resistance. To make
certain nothing was harbored therein, Doyle leaned forward, bent
completely over the metal frame, and reached inside.

He surfaced empty-handed.

Straightening, he drew a face at Bodie, and raised his brows in the
direction of the neighboring shower room. For all their thoroughness, they
had expended only seconds in the storage chamber; all told since entering
the women's lavatory, less than a minute.

Bodie nodded. This time he went first. When he stood on the tile floor a
yard or so inside the room, he made a complicated wriggle using his gun as
a pointer. Expertly interpreting the gesture, Doyle signalled his
understanding and complied, stepping into the chamber and moving inward a
predesignated distance, where he then paused.

The room was as simply accoutered as the first; its dimensions no longer,
but somewhat wider. Four shower stalls, fronted by plastic curtains
suspended by rings from metal rods, ranged against the far wall; a narrow,
wooden bench took up the center of the floor; and a series of steel
lockers, tiered in threes, provided a metal veneer for the wall abutting
on the door. There was no entry point other than the door by which they
had entered.

The last shower was in use, the person therein visible through the curtain
as an amorphous shape. Only her high, clear voice gave away her gender.

With the sureness of choreography, Bodie and Doyle made a sweep of the
room, peering inside the empty stalls and glancing into the depths beyond
the last triple tier of lockers. Then Doyle pointed down at the floor of
the occupied shower.

Red. Rivulets of blood eddied about the bottom edge of the plastic
curtain, trapped there by the steady flow of water pouring out of the
shower tap.

Wordlessly directing Doyle toward the far side of the stall, Bodie waited
until his partner was in place. He carefully curled the tips of his
fingers around one side of the curtain and gave it a violent tug.

A woman stood there, hair slicked flat against her head, her bare, pale
body streaming with water. Slowly and unconcernedly, she looked round
until her face was clearly discernible. It was Francesca Oldman.

She smiled.

"Miss Oldman," Bodie said. "Can you explain what you're doing here-?" The
words evaporated in his mouth. The woman's body was overrun with small,
round scars: Abdomen, chest, the upper shoulder near the spine-no vital
part of her person remained unmarked. They looked, Bodie thought wildly,
like bullet holes. But such wounds ought to have been fatal. Unless-

"What *are* you?" he breathed.

Her smile widened. She turned toward them, arms falling to her sides,
utterly unconscious of her nudity. "I think you already know," she
murmured.

And then she began to *change*.

It started with her feet, a reformation of muscle and bone, skin and hair
that should have been impossible-but, as witnessed at close quarters by
Bodie, all too evidently not impossible at all. The reconfiguration spread
upward through her body with shocking speed and fluidity.

*"Bodie!" *

Doyle's shout-not his first-finally overcame Bodie's paralysis. He spun
round, one foot slipping on a patch of wet tile. Desperately regaining his
footing, he bolted for the door. There he skidded to a stop beside his
partner. Together they brought their weapons to bear.

Fully transformed, the creature-once more a huge, elegantly proportioned,
silver Borzoi-regally emerged from the shower stall. Bodie fired, then
fired again. The .44 bucked in his hand-four shots, five shots, six.
Beside him, the Walther was spewing bullets in rapid-fire mode. In the
confined space, the explosive reports were deafening.

Each bullet struck home, and with each, the animal faltered-but only very
briefly-before continuing to saunter toward them. At the last possible
moment, Bodie grabbed hold of Doyle's arm, slung him across the threshold
into the linen chamber, and deftly slid through after him-almost catching
a long muzzle in the door as he dragged it shut.

"Ray- Doyle! Oh, shit!"

Doyle was down, his back against the closed and locked door which led into
the lavatory, legs askew in front of him, head lolling awkwardly to one
side. "Ray," Bodie whispered. "Doyle, what happened?" A cursory
examination uncovered a sizable, and rising, lump on Doyle's left temple
half-hidden under a fall of curls. At a guess, Bodie either had thrown his
partner off balance with the uncalculated strength of his shove, or
wet-soled, Doyle's feet had gone out from under him. Incapable of slowing
his collision with the door, Doyle must have suffered a blow to the
head-enough to stun him, and certainly enough to remove him from action.

Sluggishly recoiling from Bodie's cautious touch, Doyle groggily opened
his eyes. He attempted a smile to reassure his anxious partner, but even
that slight effort was too great. His eyes glazed over and rolled up in
his head.

"Damn it, Ray, I need you," Bodie exclaimed.

Violent bursts of sound issuing from the other side of the door suggested
that time might be at a premium.

"The woman's a bloody werewolf, Ray!" Bodie gasped aloud, finding some
comfort in addressing his partner, even though Doyle would be tendering no
advice. "What works against werewolves? It's silver, isn't it? Silver-
Where am I going to find something *silver*?"

Doyle's person was subjected to a brisk, impersonal search. For once, he
wore neither bracelet nor neck chain. *"Ray!" * Bodie slapped his own
pockets, thoughts desperately dervishing in his head. There must be
*something-*

The door gave a dreadful squawk, wood and frame rattling noisily before
the creature's stubborn assault. She was playing them about. At any moment
she could easily transform back into her human form and simply *open* the
door.

"God damn it," Bodie protested indignantly, "there're no such *things* as
werewolves!"

His eyes fell upon the incongruous bulge lying under denim at the juncture
of Doyle's left hip and thigh. He heard himself say, *" 'Bout the only
place pound sterling means anything these days." *Pound sterling- Of
course! The silver stripe, the one running down the right side of all
banknotes, the one his father had rabbited on about. * "The backing of the
Bank of England; the pledge of the Treasury; the proof of British
soundness." *

Wasting no more time, Bodie whipped out his pocket knife and surgically
removed the roll of notes. As swiftly as slightly trembling fingers would
allow, Bodie removed the rubber band and flattened the body-warm paper
across his knee.

A much louder, splintering creak urged him to hasten his efforts; from the
other side of the door at their backs, came the steady rumble of voices
and the insistent thud of shoulders attempting to break in. Though the
comfort of numbers was hugely appealing at this moment, Bodie dared not
risk Oldman's escaping again. And no one on the other side could know what
they would be up against.

It took precious seconds to precisely order the notes so that the bit of
silver lay in exactly the same place, no matter the denomination, nor the
size, of the currency. That done, he then folded and refolded the entire
lot lengthwise until he had one narrow strip of thickly padded currency.
Aligning the metal stripe squarely over the bore of his .44, Bodie applied
the rubber band to secure the notes in place. Then he groped in his jacket
pocket for his speed loader.

The shriek of hinges being forcibly displaced brought his head up: One
glimmering, canine eye glinted at him through the newly formed crack.

Knowing he had only seconds-perhaps less-Bodie turned the knob of the
speed loader, releasing six bullets into the cylinder. He would need only
one; but that one must deliver its silver payload where it could do
maximum damage: the creature's heart.

Too late he realized the necessity for something to protect his arm, for
he meant to let the beast come as close as possible before pulling the
trigger. His leather jacket would have to do.

At that instant, Bodie's entire being prepared for battle, Doyle began to
stir.

"Bo-?"

The door crashed inward, nearly torn off its frame. In one soaring leap,
the animal was upon them, all teeth and powerful, long-nailed paws. Bodie
threw up his left arm, felt the terrible, crushing pressure of closing
jaws simultaneous with the formidable weight of the thing smashing into
his chest.

He fired.

The impact of the bullet resonated even through Bodie's arm. Not one to
waste an opportunity, he emptied the remainder of his ammunition into the
animal's body. Hot, sour breath washed over him; the teeth embedded in his
flesh suddenly tore free and lunged toward his face. Though pain lit up
every nerve ending between wrist and elbow, Bodie once more shoved his arm
into harm's way-and once more it took the brunt of the animal's assault.

He cried out as frighteningly strong jaws clamped down on bone and tissue.
Furious, he shoved forward-and amazingly, the animal faltered. The
pressure eased, then let up altogether. The enormous wolfhound shuddered
from head to tail, gasped frantically in a sudden struggle for air, then
collapsed on the floor.

It lay only inches away, the great chest rising and falling to the
accompaniment of loud, sucking noises. As Bodie watched, the unbelievable
transformation began once more, this time in reverse. Francesca Oldman's
head appeared, followed by her neck, shoulders, and torso.

With immense effort, she looked up at Bodie. Her mouth moved, but for a
second no sound emerged. Swallowing hard, she tried again. She said
slowly, but with perfect clarity, "I-bit-you."

Involuntarily Bodie glanced down at his savaged arm; blood welled through
the punctured fabric of both shirt and jacket. He winced, the triumph in
the woman's voice ringing in his ears.

Oldman mewled, her hand clutching at her chest. Her fingers twitched
spasmodically, then stilled. All at once, she seemed to relax, every
muscle in her body conceding the final battle.

"Cri-key." Doyle had regained full consciousness, his eyes wide open now
and staring at the nude form lying dead at their feet. "Bodie, take a look
at that!" He pointed at the woman's left leg. From the calf down, it
retained the aspect of the Borzoi: Silky, silvery hair and canine leg
configuration were preserved intact.

Faintly sickened by the sight, Bodie pushed himself back beside his
partner. "You all right?"

"Got a hell of a knot on me head; but yeah, I think so. You?"

Bodie cautiously brought his arm up so that Doyle could see it.

A soft whistle rent the air. "Bad?"

"Enough."

"What's *that*?" Doyle gestured toward Bodie's pistol, which hung loosely
from his right hand.

"My- Oh." The blackened remains of Doyle's money, scorched from the muzzle
blast but still held in place by the rubber band, formed a ragged,
Dantesque halo round the barrel.

Doyle's eyes fell to his trousers and zeroed in on the betraying slit in
his pocket. He immediately grasped what had been done. *"Bodie!" *

"It saved our lives, Ray," Bodie defended himself. The pain in his arm had
evolved into one enormous throb. His chest ached abominably from the force
of the creature's assault. He fancied that by morning the imprint of four
great paws-in the form of spectacular bruising-would lavishly decorate his
ribs.

"My *money* saved our lives?" Doyle said hoarsely. " 'S that what you're
saying?"

Offering a nod in lieu of the words he was too drained to speak, Bodie
watched in some fascination as the look of intense horror on Doyle's face
gradually melted away-to be replaced by resigned affection.

"What?" Bodie croaked, Doyle's amusement at this moment quite beyond him.

"Someday," Doyle murmured, his head coming to rest heavily on Bodie's
shoulder, "I'll explain it to you."

******

*Denouement*

*In the main, * Bodie decided, gauging the strength of his shackles with
wrists bearing the welts and redness of previous tests, *life is bloody
unfair. *

The lock-up garage was cold and dank. It smelled of mold and rust and oil.
Taking up nearly three fourths of the musty interior was an old,
battleship-grey Vauxhall. Despite its outworn look, the vehicle was
actually in excellent condition, seen to on a regular basis by Bodie
himself. It was his means of escape should the world turn against him-as
it had been known to do on occasion-as well as replacement for a previous
car which Cowley had had impounded some years before.

At present, Bodie was bound to the car's axle by a length of chain.
Encircling his neck was a steel collar and round his wrists were
heavy-duty cuffs-all of which had been purchased with ease, and very few
questions, from an underground S club. Collar and manacles were connected
to the longer piece of chain by industrial grade padlocks-neither of which
Bodie had keys for. In essence, he was here for the duration; and tonight,
he hoped, that duration would achieve its uneventful pinnacle. Contingency
for his deliverance from this bizarre circumstance had been arranged-but
not for another thirty-six hours would it be set in motion.

Bodie sighed and settled back into the folds of his sleeping bag. Several
feet away, linked to the collar round his throat by a thin, but high
tensile strand of wire, a cocked Browning High Power tracked his every
movement. That tireless, impersonal sentinel kept sleep at bay as no drug
could. Grimly, Bodie met its lethal stare.

He wanted to go home. More than that, he wanted to see Ray Doyle.

In Bodie's life there had been privation and succor, agony and pleasure;
but only once, had there been unbridled exhilaration: That had occurred
eight nights ago, in Raymond Doyle's arms. *One* night. Then, their world
had disintegrated thanks, at least in part, to a woman who could
physically change herself into something else. Given his present, unhappy
situation, that night now seemed thousands of years in the past.

They had been sorely pressed since the day of Francesca Oldman's death.
Bodie's injured forearm had been unceremoniously bandaged, his bottom
pricked with some chemical cocktail meant to subvert any opportunistic
bacteria, and he himself sent-sans painkillers-to attend Cowley, while
Doyle had been held in hospital overnight for observation, quite vocally
against his will.

Cowley's "big" op had gone critical that same night. For the ensuing six
days all available manpower, including those on leave and the mildly ill
or injured, had been placed on assignment. Once out of hospital, Doyle had
been sent north to assist with the team in Leicester; in London, Bodie had
headed up the group gathering information out of the south and its
environs.

At the last moment, everything had fallen apart. Alerted somehow to CI5's
surveillance, the terrorist group had gone to ground, vanished almost
before anyone knew what had happened.

Cowley had not been best pleased, his wrath more excoriating than ever
before. Contrite and exhausted, several overworked agents had drifted
homeward to catch up on much needed sleep, while those who had fewer hours
on record were left to run the show.

Bodie had not waited for a formal stand-down. After filing a bare bones
report, he had promptly removed himself from Cowley's-and, by extension,
Doyle's-reach. His plans had been formulated during the long, quiet hours
spent mulling his options in place of sleep while on assignment.
Accordingly, they had been well developed and, subsequently, smoothly
executed.

And here he lay, having completed one and a half days of three that had
promised excruciating discomfort and boredom. That potential had been
unreservedly fulfilled; but every hour of continued normality was
anxiously notched up as another major coup.

But there were still forty hours or thereabouts to go before he could
anticipate rescue. *Please, Ray.... *

Bodie closed his eyes, knowing he dared not sleep. Through the grimy
skylight, the greying light of dusk shaded slowly to black. This, by far
the most important night of the three, would soon be upon him.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts, Bodie almost missed the first furtive
*click*. It came from without, almost certainly from the door to this
particular unit-the outside lock? When it was repeated, Bodie incautiously
sat up all at once, the blood draining from his heart as the Browning High
Power swung about, unquestioningly maintaining the pre-set target in its
sights.

Vision obscured by the hulking presence of the old Vauxhall, Bodie could
only sit and listen. *Click. Click click. * The bolt grated noisily as it
was withdrawn from its socket; seconds later, the internal
restraints-placed there by Bodie-shriekingly protested their peremptory
removal by what sounded suspiciously like a well-placed kick.

*Someone had broken in. *

The intruder painstakingly and at leisure fitted the door back into its
frame. By the time the task was completed a minute or two later-measured
in double time by Bodie's overworked heart-Bodie himself was on the verge
of screaming with tension. He was securely bound and forbidden movement-by
his own invention; punch-drunk from lack of sleep and dread; and had at
his defense only a three-inch knife-nothing which would stand him in good
stead for very long in any sort of battle.

But he also, on some still functioning level of his mind, had some notion
who his uninvited guest might be.

A brilliant light shone straight into his eyes, blinding him instantly and
totally. The intruder had moved with astonishing stealth; until then,
Bodie had not guessed his caller had even ventured away from the door.
Horrified, he felt his link to the Browning go shockingly taut, there was
a loud *snap*, and he was released.

"No," he gasped.

"Could hurt yourself with that thing pointing at you," a familiar, but at
the moment altogether unwelcome voice remarked.

"*Doyle. *"

"Yeah. Fancy meeting you here."

"How'd you find me?"

" 'S a long story. You've changed your fashion statement-or are chains in
now?"

"Go away, Ray. Please."

"Not on your life. I'm only sorry I forgot me camera. You'd make a
smashing addition to the rest room notice-board in that gear."

Face burning, Bodie said thickly, "Big joke, is that what you think this
is?"

"The biggest. But providing you talk your way out of this, I won't divorce
you."

"Doyle-"

"Yeah, mate, I've been laughing meself sick these past three days trying
to find you. Forgot how your mind works sometimes."

"Just go away, will you? Two more days and-"

"The full moon will be past. You're a right pillock, d'you know that?"

Bodie's eyes had adjusted to the fluorescent lamp, one of the features of
the multi-use, oversize torch which rested now on the ground between them.
"Who asked you?" he raged. "Just leave this to me."

Doyle ignored him, studiously disconnecting the Browning High Power from
its makeshift perch-a heavy, metal chair fitted with a vise and a pivot.

"I didn't invite you here," Bodie said bitterly. "Can't you take a hint?"

"Me mum always accused me of being thick-skinned. Guess she was right,"
Doyle replied unoffended. Thumbing the release, he removed the magazine,
then worked the slide to eject the chambered round. After collecting the
bullet from the concrete floor a few feet away, he held it out to the
light. "Silver, eh? That must've set you back a bit." He squeezed it back
into the clip and shoved the magazine into the butt of the pistol. The
safety engaged, the Browning vanished into an inside jacket pocket. "By
the way, Cowley knows about us."

Bodie's mouth fell open. There was no snappy response in his lexicon of
smart phrases that suited-so he said nothing at all.

Enjoying his partner's stupefaction, Doyle grinned evilly. *"Everything."
*

"You-? *You* told Cowley about *us*?"

Doyle nodded. "That's right." Eyes alight, he dropped onto his heels,
scrutinizing Bodie's appearance. "And to think you did that to yourself."
He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Kinky."

"You bastard," Bodie fumed impotently. "Why'd you have to tell Cowley?!"

Doyle's expression instantly hardened. "Because it's permanent. As we
agreed. No point in giving anyone ammunition against us, is there? Anyway,
you'll be pleased to know that he took it rather well."

Unconvinced, Bodie scoffed, "Rather well?"

Shrugging off-handedly, Doyle began to pluck at Bodie's supplies, dragging
forth the well-stocked cool-bag from under the car. His fingers delved
inside, blithely taking inventory. "As well as might be expected. He'll
adjust. Newcastle Brown! D'you mind?" 

"Help yourself. Adjust, eh? Give us the boot, more like. That's what you
really mean, isn't it?"

With the concentration of a brain surgeon, Doyle worked the ring off-then
tossed it over his shoulder into the gathering shadows. "Reckon I do," he
said unconcernedly. "You complaining?"

Riveted by the challenge in his partner's eyes, Bodie paused. Then he
raised his hands in capitulation, the movement setting his chains
clanking. "No."

"Good. Now-because I'm going to respect your stupidity-no, that's a lie;
actually, I might thump you if you could fight back-I'm leaving you
chained. For now."

The breath caught in Bodie's throat. "Ray-"

"Shut it. I haven't much liked the last two days, Bodie." He took a long
pull on his beer. "You had me fooled, y'know. Never gave on that you were
shit-scared after what that nutter Oldman did to you. When I found out
you'd done a bunk, I had to do the thinking for both of us."

Miserable as usual when confronted with an unappealing truth, Bodie
mumbled, "The last thing I need right now is you preaching at me, mate."

"Better than some of the other things that've crossed my mind," Doyle
countered darkly. Then, with unwilling concern, he asked, "You warm enough
over there?"

The grudging note in Doyle's query was ill concealed. Bodie succumbed to a
short laugh. "I'm lovely, thanks."

Doyle glowered at him. "You are, you bastard. Beautiful but stupid.
Thought you were more clever than that, Bodie." Then almost to himself, he
went on, "But it's forever now; can't give up on you, can I?"

Stung by this qualification, Bodie blurted, "You won't say that if-" The
words were too ghastly. He would not speak them, though they had occupied
the corridors of his mind for the last eight days.

"If you turn into a werewolf?" Doyle said matter-of-factly. "That's what
you've been worried about, isn't it?"

Mutiny glinted in Bodie's sleep-starved eyes; but he would not speak.

A tiny smile lightened Doyle's features. "I talked with the coroner,
what's-its-name-Parker. Cowley instructed him to tell me all-every gory
detail. Didn't understand the half of it," he conceded wryly, "but the
upshot was that Francesca Oldman was in no way supernatural. Flesh and
blood, he said. His best guess was that she was some sort of mutation."

Sneering, Bodie mocked, "A shape-shifting mutation?"

"You'd rather believe in satanic pacts? Being a rape-got child born on the
wrong day-like Ollie Reed?"

Bodie's eyes widened. "You saw that too?"

"With you, if I recollect correctly; on the box, many moons ago." Doyle
grimaced. "Sorry." He had another swig of his beer. "According to Parker,
she was well into her eighties."

"Eighties!" Bodie said, disbelieving. "She didn't look a day over
forty-five."

"Hm. Parker was convinced otherwise, based on organ and bone
deterioration-that sort of thing. Better still," he paused, assuring
himself that he had his partner's full attention, "she died of heart
failure. *Natural causes*."

"That's ridiculous! I shot her-"

"The bullet wounds were nearly healed when she died. You heard me right,"
Doyle anticipated Bodie's protest. "You saw them. Had something to do with
her metabolism, Parker said. He couldn't be absolutely certain, of course,
never having encountered anything like her before. That bloody dog leg was
a real fascination, I can tell you."

"But I- The silver-"

"There's no *silver* in pound notes, you moron!" Doyle shouted. "You blew
away three weeks' worth of *my* wages for *nothing*."

"No silver! My grandda always said-"

"Yeah, yeah. Common misbelief. Shows the backing of the Bank of England,
the strength of the Treasury. 'S codswallop, mate. By the way-I expect you
to pay me back."

This sweeping condemnation of his brilliance was almost more than Bodie
could bear. "You're telling me that she just *happened* to drop dead?
Bloody coincidental, don't you think?"

With a final gulp, Doyle drained his can. He crunched the empty container
in his fist, and wiped his mouth on a sleeve. "Actually, it explains a lot
of things."

"Name one."

Unperturbed by Bodie's peevish tone, Doyle gladly complied. "Why the
recent, cack-handed murder spree, for example. She killed her first
anti-animal rights MP nearly ten years ago. The next one didn't follow for
over a year. Picked 'em off slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion. When
she realized she was running out of time, she became far more reckless.
Oh, yeah: Oldman was a founding member of ALF, too."

"ALF?"

"Animal Liberation Front. Terrorist group overseeing the rights of our
furry brothers and sisters, according to Lucy."

"Lucy?"

"Your Miss Flower. Oldman's assistant, remember?"

"You spoke with *her* about all this?"

"She came to us. Found her great-granny's diaries-didn't even know they
were related, mind, though she'd often wondered why Oldman had been so
kind to her. Found out through the journals that Oldman had arranged for
her to hire on as her assistant just so Oldman could have her near by.
After Lucy'd had a look at those, she got in touch with Cowley. Who put
her in touch with me."

"She didn't know what Oldman was, then?"

"No. Seemed pretty shaken by that bit of news; being kin and all. Wondered
if *she* might be-y'know?-but Oldman's diaries confirmed what Parker said:
that her ability to transform was some sort of physiological
quirk-something she was able to do all her life, though she never
understood how or why. Cowley believes Lucy's story; he's seen the
diaries. I believe her, too."

"Christ."

"Lucy says she wasn't a bad person, our Miss Oldman. Only-she started to
go off the rails a bit as she got older-especially in the last ten years."

"A bit?"

Doyle conferred a fond smile on his disgruntled mate. "It was modern
technology that got to her. Like that picture we saw on the wall of her
study, remember? Laboratory rabbits; the mistreatment of animals in the
name of science. Those ministers on our list: She'd lobbied all of 'em to
support her cause. If they didn't come through for her-they got the chop."

"What about the abstainers?"

"Them too; anyone who wouldn't take a stand. She grew less tolerant of
their havering as the years went by-and as the treatment of lab animals
became more appalling. Mice, bunnies, dogs, cats, monkeys: wretched little
buggers put through the wringer for the sake of people."

"You sound," Bodie declared quietly, "almost as though you agree with
her."

Lips pursed consideringly, Doyle dipped his head. "Let's just say I
understand the motivation, and leave it at that."

"And Quayle? Why'd she kill him?"

"He knew too much-just like Livi. And he was about to spill all of it to
us. Ironic, isn't it, that he was as ardent a supporter of animal rights
as Oldman. That's how he managed to twig to her. After the recent spate of
MPs dying, he realized she was the one common link among all of those
seemingly innocent deaths. He watched her for a while-long enough to
stumble upon her secret. That's when he brought Livi into it."

Bodie shifted his left arm; it was starting to fall asleep. Steel pressed
against one of the many puncture wounds that were scattered across his
forearm. The bandages had come off a few days before, but the skin was
still a little tender. "Oldman made a point of saying she'd bit me-as
though it ought to mean something."

"She was angry." Doyle rubbed at his face. "Lucy thought she probably
wanted a little of her own back before she died."

"Yeah? If Oldman was all that close to snuffing it, why didn't she just
kill us when she broke into our flats?"

"Liked to play intimidation games, so your Miss Flower says. Remember the
music in her study? And not only that-" Doyle waited a beat for effect,
"apparently the old bitch took a fancy to you-was in her diary. Lucy read
that bit to me."

Not to be provoked nor amused, Bodie observed, "Was awfully forthcoming,
your Lucy."

Green eyes narrowed to basilisk slits. "Not my Lucy." 

"Nor *my* Miss Flower."

Folding his arms across his chest, Doyle stared at him. "No." He raised
his brows. "You ready to go home, sunshine?"

The note of entreaty in Doyle's voice breached the last of Bodie's
defenses. "You're convinced, Ray? That I wasn't-contaminated?" Of this he
must be unequivocally certain.

"Completely."

"One hundred percent? I couldn't live with myself if I-"

"You're *not* a werewolf. For that matter, neither was Francesca Oldman.
Lucy said she liked to use the form of the Borzoi for that very reason."

"I don't understand."

"Borzoi were used to hunt wolves in Imperial Russia. Bred for speed, they
were-bigger, too. They could run wolves to ground and tear them apart-or
hold them for their masters to do the job. It amused her to become
something that contradicted legend." He paused. "I can't explain it;
Parker couldn't either. I know what she did seems impossible. But
sometimes you just have to accept that there are weird things in this
world-only weird, not supernatural."

Doyle's persuasion and confidence were difficult to resist-nor did Bodie
want to. Exhibiting his bound wrists with some reluctance, he winced as
metal clanked against metal. Tonelessly he announced, "I mailed the keys
to you. Should arrive at your flat day after tomorrow."

"You're a cretin-have I mentioned that?"

"And you're boringly repetitive. Go fetch what you need, will you? I'd
like very much to go home. Soon."

"Not to worry. I came prepared- 's right outside in the car." But rather
than rise to fetch his bag of tricks, Doyle leaned forward and gently
pressed his mouth against his Bodie's lips. A faint moan rose in Bodie's
throat; roughly, Doyle gathered him into his arms, at once offering
comfort and strength and measureless acceptance. As Bodie huddled nearer,
chains clinking, his every sense was commanded by the man embracing him.
He felt Doyle's muscles flex as a hand fell to switch off the torch.
Darkness settled about them like soot descending a chimney.

In the absolute stillness that followed, it seemed as though one man's
heartbeat became indistinguishable from the other's. Bodie's reality was
defined by Ray Doyle-his warmth, his scent, his signature presence. In his
partner's possessive grasp, Bodie was safe and whole-and all too willing
to let Doyle's strength carry them both-for the moment, anyway. With no
one else had he ever dropped his guard so completely. But, this was Doyle.
*His* Doyle. He would never trust anyone more-nor love so well.

Doyle shifted a little, stubbled chin scraping across Bodie's temple as he
raised his head. A laugh, rough and low under his breath, percolated up
from his chest. "Bodie-up there."

Doyle's eyes were fixed on the skylight overhead. Through the waterstained
and grubby perspex, the moon was brilliantly visible, its round, full face
bathing them in its eerie, pellucid splendor.

"So- D'you feel a change coming over you, sunshine?" Doyle whispered.

Almost unmanned by a potent mix of sudden, devastating relief and surging
exhilaration, Bodie could not repress a shaky giggle. "I do, actually." He
gave Doyle a lush, hungry kiss. "But you've seen it before, and I think it
can wait till you get me home-providing you hurry."

"I," promised Doyle solemnly, "will do my very best."

With the moon shining on his face, Bodie smiled: He would never ask for
more.

-- The End --

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