The Professionals Circuit Archive - X Marks the Spot	     X Marks the
Spot

 

by O Yardley

  
 "It isn't fair," said Doyle, putting the last of the faded yellow ochre
envelopes back in the shoe box.

Bodie was still giggling over the photo of Ray, completely starkers,
sitting on a pottie that had a handle like a duck's beak.

"What isn't?"

"That you haven't any old family snaps to show me," Doyle said
plaintively. "I really fancy the idea of you in your birthday suit on a
sheepskin rug."

"You do?" Bodie brightened. "It could be arranged." He leered.

Doyle fended him off. "With an aspidistra."

"Kinky devil." Bodie had got ahold of him by this time and was making a
meal of it.

Doyle finally emerged looking tousled, but animated, with that certain
betraying droop to his eyelids.

"Haven't got a sheepskin rug," Bodie said huskily, "but I can do you a bit
of Berber."

"What's the matter with your bed?"

"Collapsed from over-use--I think the springs have gone."

"It's still better than getting rope burns off a cheap carpet," Doyle said
pointedly. "Besides, the bed was alright last night."

Bodie grinned. "Avon lady's been around since then."

Doyle raised an eyebrow. "Renewed your mascara, have you?"

A wet tongue licked over his eye. "Yours tastes so nice, I thought I'd get
some like it."

Doyle shivered--pleasureably. "Let's go to bed."



He borrowed the sheepskin rug from Jax and his missus, the aspidistra from
Murphy's Mum. With a large white bath sheet for a nappy, he even
contemplated borrowing a kilt pin from Cowley to fasten it, but eventually
chickened-out and bought one from the Scotch House in Knightsbridge. He
could always give it to the old buzzard next Christmas. On a last, happy
thought, he bought a dummy at Boots--not having felt that embarrassed
since he purchased his first packet of French letters more years ago than
he liked to contemplate.

"For my nephew," he said, waving it under the girl's nose.

She giggled loudly. "Well, I didn't think it was for you."

Bodie blushed, paid up and fled. 



Taking the photos was simple with his sophisticated camera--how to get
them printed was another matter. No way was he going to do them at HQ; the
darkroom was in constant, twenty-four hour use for one thing and to try
and get it to himself would be to arouse precisely the kind of suspicions
he least wanted. Nor was he going to take them to any ordinary chemist's
for obvious reasons: He didn't mind making a fool of himself around Doyle,
in fact doing so was pretty good all around and produced satisfactory
results, but he did draw the line at letting the outside world see just
what kind of a fool he was--the sentimental sort who'd go to almost any
lengths to please or amuse his lover.

Lover. The word gave him a warm, contented glow in a way that 'girlfriend'
never had. It wasn't just the sex that was marvelous with Ray, it was the
whole relationship. Being with him was fun. Gaining his friendship had
been the single, most important factor in Bodie's personal life; adding a
sexual element was simply the icing on the cake. Pretty fancy icing, too,
Bodie reflected, smiling reminiscently. Long before he'd come round to
actually wanting him himself, Bodie had decided his partner was the
sexiest thing on two legs. It had alot to do with a certain pair of pale
blue denims with a patch on the rump; how he'd kept his hands off Doyle
that day he never knew. He'd even been a little worried afterwards that
Ray had noticed his obsession at the time because that particular pair of
scruffy jeans had never appeared again.

In the end, Bodie decided to pay a call on an old portrait photographer
acquaintance and obtain the use of his dark-room--a few judicious
mutterings about 'CI5 business' and 'classified information' would be
enough to make Sandy leave him alone to get some uninterrupted peace and
quiet, and he's sent him enough custom in the past in the way of society
birds eager to get their identical little faces immortalise on film for
the old devil to owe him one.

Sandy expressed himself glad to oblige an old mate and gave Bodie the
freedom of his dark-room the next evening he was off-duty, merely
requesting him to make quite certain the door was shut when he let himself
out.

"Got a date?" Bodie asked idly.

Sandy smirked. "No one you'd know, my son. Think you can find everything
you want?"

"I'll manage. Enjoy your evening."

Once the other man was gone, Bodie settled down to work, mentally crossing
his fingers in case he did anything wrong. It was sometime since he'd done
any developing for himself and it would be particularly galling to ruin
these. Jax, for one, had eyed him very oddly when he'd borrowed that rug,
and he'd got the aspidistra from Murph's mum by dint of promising to talk
to it kindly from time to time--and a complete fool he felt doing it, too.

Good job Doyle hadn't paid any unexpected visits to his flat during the
twenty-four hours they'd been there; the rug was easy to hide but there
was little you could do to conceal a flourishing aspidistra. Since it was
nearly Christmas he could possibly have hung it with fairy lights, but a
quick brain like Ray's would have soon noticed it bore little resemblance
to a conifer.

The snaps were superbly awful and a huge grin of delight spread over
Bodie's face as he surveyed the negatives and picked out the three best
for printing. Once he'd finished with them he intended to destroy all the
negatives; he could just see the Cow's face if he ever discovered anything
like this was lying about the place for someone to find.

While he was waiting for the prints to dry, he wandered idly about Sandy's
small office seeking distraction, though there was little enough to find
save portraits of some very vapid looking young women. Bodie surveyed them
critically, deciding that none of them measured up to a certain pair of
wicked green eyes and a full sensuous mouth... Yes, he knew he'd got it
bad, had long been resigned to it.

These were more interesting--some of Sandy's other work, aerial
photography that had started purely as a hobby and was fast becoming as
good a source of income as his society portraits. Many people nowadays
were eager to have photos of their country homes and such estates as they
still owned. Bodie flicked through a box full of them, idly trying to
match them with areas he knew and failing dismally. There was just one
which he hailed with a certainty as portraying the M1 motorway near
Watford Gap with the Leicester arm of the Grand Union climbing it's stair
of five and then the two locks to the summit level; otherwise his ability
to decide on which area of England he was looking at proved negligible and
at last he abandoned the effort in self-disgust.

Eventually, he collected his three prints, carefully burnt the negatives
in Sandy's revolting, overflowing ashtray and went home.

Part of Doyle's Christmas present was now off his mind, a couple of
bottles of good malt would complete his offering. 



The weeks up to Christmas were always busy for both the petty criminal
fraternity and the police, but CI5 usually experienced a somewhat slacker
time during the festive season. This year proved the exception and job
after job occupied their attention, including the outwitting of a certain
Mr Rahad. Bodie wasn't at all sure Ray was ever going to recover from his
delight at hearing Bodie had been 'sold' to Rahad--references to chains
became tedious after a while. Maybe he'd smother himself in a set of paper
ones later on, give him a cheap thrill.

When the job was over, Cowley (for once) expressed himself well pleased
with them and offered a generous week's leave over the Christmas period
which they accepted instantly. Both being bachelors with no close
relatives, it was usually left to them to do the decent thing and remain
on duty or at the very least, stand-by, over the actual holiday and this
was the first time they had been given leave. They determined to make the
most of it and drew up a list of things that 'made Christmas really
Christmas' for each of them.

"It's noticeable," Doyle said thoughtfully, "that yours consists mostly of
things like cream and ice cream with your Christmas pudding...but
chocolate in your *stocking*?"

Bodie just grinned at him. "Well, who wants to listen to carols from
Kings?" he said scathingly. "I'll sing 'em for you."

Doyle pondered that a moment. "Bit hard to do the soprano bits unless you
have the operation."

"You should be so lucky, my angel," Bodie fluted outrageously.

Doyle chuckled, thinking of the Cadbury stocking already safely stowed
away at the back of his half of Bodie's wardrobe...sheer inspiration that
had been, and he was looking forward to seeing Bodie's face when he found
it at the foot of the bed on Christmas morning. Even be worth getting up
in the middle of the night for, that would. He could remember his father
stating that 'Christmas was really best with children around', and for
once the pompous old bugger had got it right--though Bodie probably wasn't
exactly the sort of child he had in mind.

On the 21st of December, the whole Department threw a party for Cowley who
had decided to take some long overdue leave, and bade him a tender if
somewhat drunken farewell around 3.00am when they poured him into a cab
and, in hearty chorus, told the driver where to take him.

Fortunately for Cowley, Bette retained sufficient sobriety to give a more
immediate attainable destination--a very pearl among secretaries, as Doyle
informed Bodie while they leant on the wall to await a taxi for their own
use.

Bodie surveyed him owlishly. "Only say that," he observed sagely, "because
she never let either of us get to first base even. Gives her a rarity
value!" 



On the evening of the 23rd, they clattered together down the steps of the
building in Whitehall, free for the next whole seven days to come and
already full of the Christmas spirit. With the Cow away, every room at CI5
seemed to have it's statutory bottle stowed away and they had sampled a
good many of them before they decorously took the underground back to
Bodie's flat where they planned to spend the holiday.

After an enjoyable game of darts at the local, they went home to a most
welcome bed with its promise of a long, luxurious lie-in.

Bliss.

At 6.43 precisely, the phone rang.

A curled figure turned, swore incoherently and pulled a pillow over its
head.

Two more rings.

Another, more vehement obscenity.

"Let it ring," Bodie said sleepily.

Three more rings.

"Oh shit!" said Doyle, and sat up violently, reaching over Bodie and just
managing to dislodge the receiver with his fingertips.

"'s probably my bookmaker," Bodie mumbled, being thoroughly obstructive.

Doyle however had recognised the voice at the other end of the line.

"*What*? We'll be there in half an hour. Less." He hauled himself out of
Bodie's stranglehold. "Leggo, you ape, we're going to work."

"You're crazy," Bodie told him flatly. "There's nothing and no one can
make me get up and go to work when I'm on holiday, mate. You can forget
it."

A once neatly folded pair of brown cords draped themselves about his
shoulders.

"Cowley's been snatched," said Doyle.

Twenty-five minutes later they were in the main operations room absorbing
relevant data.

Murphy had maps spread out over the table.

"He was staying here." A stabbing finger indicated a spot. "At the
Beauchamp Hotel. He was out in the afternoon playing golf on the hotel
links with an old school pal, Major Dolby. Apparently the Major got caught
short, decided a quick dive behind a tree wasn't the answer and went back
to the hotel on his own. Didn't realise George hadn't come back until he
wasn't around at dinner. Waited until 8.30 thinking he may have fallen
asleep and then went to look for him. Wasn't in his room, paged him,
finally roused the alarm just after 9.00. It was pitch dark outside,
drizzling, fortunately not freezing. They found his golf-trolley parked at
the side of the fairway--half a dozen idiots must have seen it and taken
no notice--but no sign of the Cow."

Murphy paused, his mouth momentarily closing in a stern line. "It wasn't
until then that Major Dolby recalled hearing a helicopter go overhead,
rather low, as he was on his way back to the hotel. I gather he had other
things on his...er...mind at the time."

"Bloody old fool," Bodie said evenly.

"It isn't everyone who automatically expects trouble," Doyle said fairly.
"Have we heard anything yet? From the kidnappers, I mean."

"Hang about." Bodie had taken hold of the ordinance map and turned it,
eyeing one of its features marked close to the spot Murphy had
indicated--an elongated X shape. "What's this?"

Doyle squinted. "Just a crossroads."

"Yeah--but the angles are odd. It's long and thin, not right-angled."

"So?"

"I've seen it somewhere before." Bodie's brow cleared. "That's it. Come
on, Ray, we'll check it out. Murph, we'll be at Sandy Loughton's studio in
the King's Road."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Doyle said plaintively, following
Bodie into his car. "This hardly seems the moment to try and get your
photo in Tatler."

"What--horse of the month? I'd grace their pages," Bodie informed him
loftily. "No, bird-brain, Sandy's got another string to his bow, hasn't
he?"

"Aerial photography." Doyle looked puzzled. "So?"

"So--" Bodie smother a grin. "I want a little chat with him. Know I've
seen a crossroads like that recently--in one of Sandy's photos. Easy when
you know how."

"When have you been to Sandy's recently?" Doyle asked suspiciously. "Been
'aving your portrait taken?"

"Yeah. Thought you'd like one of his soulful ones of me for Christmas."
Bodie negotiated the Sloane Square traffic with dexterity. Keep your eye
open for a parking space, mate."

Doyle sent a glare his way that said he hadn't heard the last of this and
directed Bodie down a side street. 



"Yes, I remember that one," Sandy said. "Took it last month. Postcards for
the hotel, she said."

"She?"

"Young lady name of Turvey. I've taken her picture several times. Said she
was a friend of the owner's daughter and he'd heard I was the best." He
smirked.

"Not far wrong."

"Turvey?" The name was ringing bells in Doyle's brain. "*Julia* Turvey?"

"Yes, that's right. You know her?"

"We've met," Doyle said grimly, "and if she's anything to do with anyone
at the Beauchamp Hotel, I'll eat my Sunday hat. They were casing the
bloody joint!" 



"Only one thing, Bodie said, slamming the car door. "How would Julia
Turvey know Cowley was going to be staying at the Beauchamp?"

"Not through Cowley, that's for sure," Doyle said grimly. "That only
leaves Dolby."

"He wouldn't talk...old friend of Cowley's. He knows the score." Bodie
slid the car through a gap that looked barely wide enough to accommodate a
pram.

"No--better talk to the rest of his family, though, hadn't we?" Doyle
glanced slyly across at his partner. "I hear they're a couple of beauties
and it doesn't hurt to look at the menu even if we have gone vegetarian."

"Not a bit," Bodie agreed cheerfully. 



Dolby's twin daughters--both at home from college for the Christmas
vacation, greeted the agents with mild surprise and not-so-overt admiring
looks, offered coffee and prepared to gossip happily.

Behind their backs, agents 3.7 and 4.5 exchanged significant glances.
These two'd babble about anything given the opportunity.

"Julia Turvey? No." Lissa, the blonder and most bubbly of the pair shook
her head. "Is she a relation of Mark's?"

"His sister." Bodie accepted the proffered cup and projected charm to an
indecent degree. "So you both know Mark Turvey?"

Babs shrugged. "She knows him better than I do."

"Have you ever talked to him about your father or Major Cowley?" Doyle
asked, watching his partner's practiced performance with a jaundiced eye.

Lissa giggled and exchanged looks with her sister. "I did just happen to
mention we'd be alone here over Christmas," she said, overly-innocently.
"I think Mark was worried Daddy may arrive unexpectedly with a horse-whip.
*So* old fashioned! So I told him he'd be playing golf with an old crony
over Christmas and nothing, but nothing short of an international incident
or some frightening outbreak of crime would get those two off a golf
course once they'd got going. He thought I was pulling his leg until I
told him the old friend was Major Cowley."

"So Mark's coming here, is he?" Doyle asked, sipping his coffee daintily
and pointedly ignoring Bodie's silent look of surprise.

"To a party." Babs positively dimpled. "Starting tonight."

"Which may be over by New Year," Lissa giggled.

"Do come," they both added in chorus.

"Sounds fun," Bodie said mendaciously, wondering exactly when it was he'd
grown out of wanting to spend Christmas in a drunken, pop-musical haze. He
knew when he'd grown out of women!

"We'll be along if we can." 



"Where next?" Doyle demanded. "The Turvey residence?"

"D'you think they'll be at home?" Bodie's eyes gleamed.

"Someone probably will be. Granpa may be taking a holiday at Her Majesty's
expense, but Julia and Mark's mum is still in residence along with the
kiddies. She may be able to tell us where the little ones are playing
today."

"And if not," Bodie sighed with simple pleasure, "we can persuade Mark to
give our ball back this evening at the twins'." 



The sprawling Turvey mansion still oozed considerable wealth although
there were a few signs of neglect about the long. curling drive that
indicated perhaps all was not quite so rosy in the Turvey finances as it
had once been.

Well aware of the need for extreme delicacy--they had no search warrants
and at present insufficient concrete evidence to obtain one--they were
both keenly aware as Bodie drove in, slowly, to give them both time to
look about.

"I don't believe it," Doyle said on a long, heart-felt breath.

Bodie heard the lick of excitement and turned his head, braking carefully.

"What?"

"There look--beyond those trees."

Bodie looked and a slow smile of satisfaction curved his mouth.

"Of course," he said fairly, "plenty of people with this sort of money do
own helicopters."

"Of course," Doyle agreed, but his smile matched Bodie's. "And I'll just
bet that one is covered in fingerprints."

Bodie chuckled. It was not a reassuring sound.

Suave and well mannered, they were admitted by a butler who examined their
IDs with popping eyeballs; probably remembering the last time CI5 had
called with rather less ceremony, Doyle thought cynically.

Mrs. Turvey, an over-thin, over-made up and under-dressed woman in her
late forties greeted them without enthusiasm.

"Your son," Bodie said, smiling his best knock-it-to-'em smile, "is he at
home?"

"Or your daughter?" Doyle said gravely, green eyes wide.

"Julia's about, yes." She looked from one to the other doubtfully. "What
do you...?"

"Been away recently, have they?" Bodie asked, jerking his head towards the
back of the house. "In the 'copter?"

"Well, yes, but..."

"Thought they might have seen a friend of ours," Doyle said casually.
"Like to ask them...catch up on news...you know." He smiled disarmingly.
"Always a shame when you lose touch with old friends, isn't it?"

Mrs. Turvey looked from one to the other, obviously at a complete loss.

"Well," she began doubtfully.

"If we could just see Julia," Bodie suggested.

"She's in the pool--swimming," Julia's mother told them.

"Pity she's not drowning!" Bodie said out of the corner of his mouth as
they followed Mrs. Turvey through the house to the heated pool adjoining
it.

The water was presently unoccupied, but Mrs. Turvey pointed to a tray on a
low table under a sunlamp.

"I expect Julia's dressing. She'll be out in a minute for her lunch."

Bodie looked about approvingly. "Very nice. Double glazed, I see.
Sound-proofed, is it?" He tapped the solid door they had just come
through.

"Well, yes it is, as a matter of fact," Mrs. Turvey agreed, puzzled.
"Julia and Mark used to be dreadfully noisy with all their friends here
when they were little. It used to disturb my father-in-law, their
grandfather you know..."

"Very distressin' for him," Doyle agreed solemnly. "So they could make as
much noise as they liked and not disturb anyone."

"That's right."

Bodie smiled. "How very convenient--don't you think so, Ray?"

"Very," Ray conceded. "Shall we try it out?"

Both together, they called loudly, "Major Cowley!"

A muffled yell and a thump answered them from behind one of the dressing
cubicle doors and a second later another of the doors opened and a
panic-stricken Julia Turvey emerged, clad in a towel and prepared to make
a dash for it.

Doyle caught her, holding her easily, while Bodie went to the cubicle from
which a positive frenzy of thumps and half-strangled cries was cascading.

He opened the door and stood looking down, a broad smile lighting his
eyes.

"Well, well, well," he said jovially, "it really is Christmas. Even George
Cowley comes gift-wrapped this year." 



In the car a still inclined-to-be-peevish Cowley listened to their
explanation as to how they had tracked him down, commenting sourly that it
was just like the pair of them to be blessed by such a huge coincidence.

Bodie pursed his lips. "Rewards of virtue, sir," he suggested.

Cowley made a sound like a stepped on cat.

"Oh, and we were wonderin'," Doyle said, "whether perhaps it was just a
coincidence you were on your own."

"What do you mean?" Cowley glared from out of the back seat.

"Well, Major Dolby did disappear at a most convenient moment," Doyle said.
"Could be he was leavin' them a clear field...sir!"

The look in Cowley's eye told him his irascible boss thought poorly of his
suggestion.

"No," Cowley said positively. "Clarence Dolby had nothing to do with it.
They were hoping to snatch him as well, thought it would give them more
bargaining power to get their grandfather out of jail. It was just luck
that Dolby had an upset stomach and had to go back to the hotel."

"Glad to hear it," Bodie murmured. "Never like to hear of corruption in
high places, do we, Ray?"

"Never," Doyle assented. "Oh, by the way, Happy Christmas, sir."

Cowley looked up at the sky. "It'll be too dark for another round when I
get back today," he growled, "and Doby'll be too full of turkey tomorrow
afternoon."

"Oh, what a shame," Bodie managed to say, straight-faced. "I'm sorry we
ruined a day of your holiday, sir."

"Yes, Bodie," Cowley said waspishly, "so am I!" 



Leaving Murphy to finish tidying up all the details, and promising reports
the minute they returned after the holiday, Bodie and Doyle once more made
their way back to Bodie's flat.

"Shall we take the bloody phone off the hook this time?" Doyle suggested,
half in earnest.

Bodie looked at it then at Doyle, lying in a comfortable, naked sprawl
across his bed.

"It's a temptation," he agreed, letting his gaze linger ostentatiously on
a certain portion of Doyle's anatomy.

Doyle chuckled. "Delighted to hear it. You talkin' about the phone?"

"What else?" Bodie demanded loftily.

Two muscular arms reached for him, pulling him down.

"I can't imagine," a voice breathed huskily. 



The street light outside cast an inadequate glow through the crack in the
curtains and Doyle swore volubly under his breath as first he stubbed his
toe on the wardrobe and second, overbalanced and sat down involuntarily on
the end of the bed.

He held his breath, certain he must have woken Bodie...but no, the
sleeping figure never stirred.

Instantly suspicious, Doyle stared at it and shrugged. The read-out on
Bodie's alarm said 6.28 and Bodie may soon be awake anyway. He'd meant to
get up much earlier to get the chocolate-filled stocking out, but Bodie
had made sure they'd slept long and heavily. He smiled reminiscently,
finally laid his hand upon the elusive net material and made his way to
the foot of the bed, using his teeth to open the large safety pin he'd
stowed away beside the stocking.

Having pinned his little surprise in place, he was feeling his way
stealthily back around the end of the bed when his hand encountered a
wooly lump and cold thin metal in an unmistakable configuration.

He must have made some sound because there was a muffled giggle from the
region of the pillows.

"Bodie!" Doyle snapped the bedside light on.

The picture of innocence looked back at him.

"Happy Christmas, Ray."

Half an hour later Bodie said drowsily, "Aren't you going to open your
stocking, then?"

The tumbled curls under his nose whispered lazily across it, making him
sneeze plaintively.

"Ugh!" Doyle's head lifted, face puckered in disgust.

Bodie kissed him, preventing complaint.

"Needed a shower anyway," Doyle agreed, surfacing. "What stocking?"

Bodie surveyed the bed, its quilt lopsidedly off. "Well, it was here about
an hour ago."

"So was yours."

Simultaneously they dived for the foot of the bed.

"Pin's big enough," said Doyle, holding up the massive object. Nick it off
Cowley's kilt, did you?"

Bodie smirked.

"Chocolate," he said, as one who sees heaven's portal opening before him.
"Before breakfast!" He opened a fruit and nut bar.

"You're disgusting," Doyle said, diving into the grey-looking sock Bodie
had filled for him, "you know that? What the hell..."

It was not just a pair of spectacles as he'd thought, but a Groucho nose,
eyebrows and moustache as well, all in one.

He put them on.

Bodie choked on his chocolate, dropped it, clutched his stomach and rolled
over, snorting and struggling for breath.

"Told you all that junk food was bad for your heart," the moustache
informed him smugly.

He plunged to the toe of the sock, coming up with an envelope.

"Dirty pictures?" he surmised, peeking inside.

One bloodshot-mulberry eye gazed up, it's owner barely containing
hysterics.

Doyle drew the pictures out, face carefully controlled.

From the white sheepskin rug a benappied Bodie grinned out from behind his
dummy, first legs and then bum in the air, and finally (nappyless this
time), coyly behind the aspidistra.

Doyle looked from the snapshot to the original and back again.

"My!" he said admiringly. "Who's a big boy then!"

"You're only jealous," Bodie said, fishing his squashed slab of chocolate
out from the region of his left shoulder blade and relieving Doyle of the
solitary raisin adhering to his elbow.

"Could be. I was *much* smaller at that age," Doyle agreed, turning the
third picture to a better angle and squinting at it closely.

"What is it?" Bodie enquired peering over his shoulder.

"Never noticed you had that spot on your backside before."

"What spot?" Bodie was indignant. "Skin pure as the driven snow, I have."

"Just--here!" he said, marking a large X with his fingertip, and then
leant over and bit the marked area.

Lunch was late--even for Christmas.

-- THE END --

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