I Ask No Honours
by Magenta-Blue

The clock on the wall ticked the slow minutes off one by one, yet the green telephone on his desk remained stubbornly silent. George Cowley took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, tired of reading between the lines on the reports within this particular cardboard file. But somewhere within the gathered intelligence were the clues he needed on a case that had already left an agent fighting for his life.

o0o

The file was pushed onto CI5 by Scotland Yard when armed bank robbers had bypassed cash to steal sensitive blueprints. The missing designs were the building plans of several key government offices, which were set to become very prominent in the year to come, especially if the news filtering through from Argentina proved correct. The importance of these blueprints would not have been known to career criminals unless someone a lot higher up had pointed it out to them, at which point the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police had gritted his teeth and put in the call to a Major George Cowley.

As always with a hand-over case, several meetings had taken place ostensibly to pool information, but in reality to soothe ruffled blue feathers. Sharing did not come easily to the various sections in the civil service, even when they were united in a common goal. Cowley treated such negotiations as a game of chess, and thankfully he was now a grandmaster in this field, with years of experience at check-mate. This time he had judged that prudence was in order, and he soon had what he wanted – all the files the police had painstakingly put together on the bank robbers. The results did not made pleasant reading.

Stark black and white surveillance photographs revealed the protagonists – Dave Gray and Les Davis. Both were long-haired, sallow faced men – Gray had bulk and a drooping moustache, and Davis was whip-thin in denim with a seemingly permanent cigarette attached to his lip. In all the photographs lurked a third man, built like a boxer in his prime - hired muscle by the name of Barrett, according to the police files. The three were known within police circles as the ringleaders behind at least two violent armed robberies, the second of which had killed a bank teller. Cash had been the focus of previous robberies, but this time around the gang appeared to go out of their way to steal safety deposit box 1224, home of the blueprints. So why change the pattern? The only puzzle Cowley enjoyed was The Times crossword last thing at night with a pure malt, so he was damned if this would stay a mystery for too long.

The gang had been tracked to a ninth floor high rise flat in Tottenham, north London - Susan making the paperwork connection between the date of the first robbery and a supposed ex-girlfriend of Davis buying the flat outright in cash. Anson set up an observation team dressed as workmen at the front and back entrances of the high-rise, and had hit pay dirt when one of his team photographed Davis scurrying in through the back door. A stake out had been hurriedly arranged, although logistically it had been a problem - no buildings overlooked the high-rise, and to get a flat on the same corridor without raising suspicion had been tricky to say the least. So they had gone into the tenth floor flat directly above, re-homing a young family at considerable cost over the Christmas period, and installing high-tech listening devises to monitor every move in the flat below. It soon became apparent that all three of the gang were holed up in the same place – occasionally one of the men would smoke cigarettes on the balcony and shout back to their companions inside, something that would make the listening operatives above shake their heads with a grim smile at such carelessness.

Cowley hoped that this negligence would extend to letting slip the name of who had engaged them, and when the deal for the blueprints was due to go ahead. He spent hours at HQ listening to the observation recordings, frowning and replaying the tapes, mugs of tea always cold by the time he remembered to take a sip. The result of this labour had produced a few anomalies to cross-reference within the files, yet the results had been sketchy at best. If war went ahead in the Falklands he needed to know who was interested in compromising national security at this sensitive time, especially as it looked as though the buyer was someone within the Home Office itself. Despite that (and maybe because of that, thought Cowley) pressure was building on CI5 to just round the gang up and get the plans back, and sod whoever wanted to buy them. He had prudently arranged a discreet watching brief on two of the main suspects, both with Argentinean connections and security clearance on the developing situation - Richard Bagley and James Pierce. However, several tense conversations with the Home Secretary over the last 24 hours all meant that Cowley was running out of time.

And suddenly there was no time left at all.

The case had broken this afternoon, just when late Christmas shoppers were panic-buying mince pies and shop girls with tinsel in their hair were looking forward to well-earned days of freedom. Davis’s girlfriend, a curly-haired skinny blonde with a fancy for pastel pink jumpers, stonewashed jeans and white plastic boots, had got into conversation with a few kids from the tenth floor on the stair-well, the lift having seasonally broken down for the festive season. The result had sent her slamming into the ninth floor flat, a sound that had raised eyebrows from the operatives listening above, and had preceded a screaming argument between her and Davis about ‘the fucking police in the flat above’.

Cursing bored inquisitive teenagers, two of the operatives in question had taken the unvoiced decision to run from the flat and leap eight-stairs-a-time down the stair-well after it had become apparent that Davis, Gray and Barrett were doing a runner. One operative had barrelled straight into the ninth floor flat with no thought to his own safety, and the other had continued his leaping mad rush down the stair-well after an equally intent leaping man in white denim. The remaining operative left in the tenth floor flat had quickly stubbed his cigar, calling it in to the back up team waiting in an unmarked car below, and then to Cowley back at HQ. All the while he had listened to the sounds that had rang through the corridors, amplified and distorted – shouts and screams and running footsteps – but still he had delivered the report thoroughly and efficiently before Cowley had closed the communication.

That had been before the gun shot. After that all hell had broken loose.

o0o

The green phone rang, breaking loudly into Cowley’s thoughts, its tone shrill in the quiet of the room. He snatched up the receiver with an agile speed. “Alpha One.”

“Anson. The flat is clean, sir. They must have taken it with them.”

“Damn, have you checked everywhere, man?” Cowley said, agitation making his voice sound harsh.

“There’s nowhere left to check. One of them has taken the plans with them. They left behind two bottles of gin, some broken furniture, and a hysterical blonde called Paula. Lewis is bringing her to you now. No sign of 3.7 or 4.5.”

“Right.” Cowley sifted through the photographs in the file until he found Paula Foster. He stared at her image dispassionately, and laid it to one side. He’d already memorised her file, along with the others. “Get Malone to go over that flat with a fine-tooth comb – they might have left some clues behind as to the buyer’s identity. He’s on his way over to you.”

“Sir.” Anson acknowledged the command, and yet there was an uncharacteristic hesitation in his voice. “The gunshot…Is… Was it Bodie or Doyle?”

Cowley shuffled the papers with his free hand. “Neither. It was McCabe.” He found the document he was looking for but for a second the type was blurred. He blinked, and the document was once again in clear focus. “Lucas said he must have run straight into one or more of them coming out of the front entrance.”

Anson was quiet, and Cowley knew the man’s thoughts would be on his instruction to McCabe and Lucas, the back up team. It was where Cowley’s own thoughts first went whenever there had been a casualty, whether all the information was clear, whether the decision was correct, and ultimately, whether it was worth it. The latter only became apparent much later, and even then, it could be a very bittersweet victory indeed. Still, right now there was a job to do.

“Get Malone to call me the instant anything turns up, and Anson?”

“Sir?” Anson sounded subdued.

“There’s a slim chance he’ll pull through. Don’t give up hope just yet.”

“No sir.” There was a pause. “He owes me a pint anyway.”

Cowley had just replaced the green phone receiver when the black phone began to ring, the line that was used by other landlines rather than RT communications.

“It’s Chief-Inspector Grant, sir, Tottenham division,” said Betty in her precise tones, “shall I put him through?”

“Yes,” Cowley said, and waited until he heard the connection click. “Cowley.”

“Grant here, Chief-Inspector Grant. We’ve done a sweep of the area and nothing has come up yet or been reported. Shall we start a door-to-door of the flats?”

Cowley’s gaze flickered to the clock. Six o’clock on Christmas Eve. Excited children, exhausted parents – he sighed briefly for them. “Yes, but don’t disturb or alarm the residents more than necessary – tell your men to take the official line that the villains have now been apprehended, and the door-to-door is for reassurance, rather than information. I doubt any of the gang would have forced their way into another flat in the building, but letting them know that would be good for everyone.”

“Certainly sir, I’ll put the order out now. Over and out,” said the Chief-Inspector.

Cowley hesitated, and then picked up the green receiver. “Betty? Try again to raise both 3.7 and 4.5.”

She acknowledged his order, and he paused with his hand still resting on top of the warm plastic. Rain gusted heavily on the window pane behind him and he looked towards the sound, staring at the glistening glass, distorted street lights streaking orange through the black of the evening. The door to his office opened, and he turned back to see the solid figure of Lewis framed in the doorway.

“I have Paula Foster downstairs in room seven sir – did you want to question her yourself?”

“I did,” Cowley said, and he got to his feet, rubbing his right thigh slightly as the sudden movement sparked a twinge of half-forgotten pain. Betty was speaking on the phone as he walked past her desk, and she quickly covered the receiver with her hand. “Sir? I couldn’t raise either 3.7 or 4.5 – Anson says 3.7 left his RT behind in the tenth floor flat, but 4.5’s is nowhere to be seen.” She stopped, listening to Anson speak, as Cowley briefly closed his eyes with suppressed annoyance. One of these days he would superglue that RT to 3.7’s... “Sir? Anson says the Capri has gone, so presume one or both of them are mobile.” She put down the receiver, and waited expectantly with her hand still on top of it.

“Call the car-transmitter and put it through to my RT,” Cowley said, slapping briskly at his jacket pocket by way of emphasis before gesturing at Lewis to continue walking.

“She’s in a bit of a state, sir – not sure she realised Davis was still up to his old tricks. She might be co-operative. Pretty girl as well,” Lewis added as a non-sequitur, as they walked down the stairs.

Cowley gave his agent a hard look. “Is she indeed?” He stopped in front of a closed heavy wooden door, about to push it open, when the discreet beep of an RT sounded from his jacket. He fished it out of his pocket. “Alpha One.”

“4.5.” Just two spoken numbers, yet the voice behind them sounded harassed and urgent.

“Go ahead 4.5.”

“They’ve broken cover, I’m following Davis. He’s…” there was the sound of a curse and loud squealing tyres, and Cowley held the RT a little away from his ear, before replacing it “…heading towards Brimsdown, white Escort – licence plate CV2 6RJK.”

“CV2 6RJK,” Cowley repeated, looking towards Lewis, who nodded, and turned away slightly, bringing his own RT out of his pocket and saying softly “Betty – can you run an APB on the licence plate CV2…”

Cowley tuned him out. “Brimsdown?” he asked wonderingly, before breaking it with the harsher “Did Davis have a bag with him?”

“Yes – navy holdall.” There was a pause, and Cowley listened to the roar of a distant car engine, before Doyle continued. “Might be the blueprints or the money – whatever it is, he…” another loud squeal of tyres, another muffled curse, “…didn’t want to let it go.”

“Is Bodie with you?”

“No, we split up, he went to the flat. 4.5 out.” There was a clunky sound, as if the car transmitter had been chucked onto a passenger seat, and Cowley heard a long squeal of brakes around an unseen corner before the connection broke.

He pursed his lips, wishing for a moment he could be in two places at once. Brimsdown… Brimsdown? He closed his eyes briefly, thinking of the map upstairs, and the possible route Davis was taking – out of London? Heading north… so Hertfordshire, Cambridgeshire… Something buried within that file upstairs had mentioned Cambridgeshire – Davis’s estranged brother lived there, estranged like the ex-girlfriend was an ex? He raised his RT again and impatiently clicked the button. “Betty? Oh, Sarah. Organise a full run down on Les Davis’s brother – where he lives, what he does for a living – everything. Out.”

He roughly shoved the RT back into his jacket pocket and for a moment the corridor was lit by a jagged streak of lightening that flashed its eclectic way across the inky black of a distant window. Both he and Lewis looked towards the sight.

“Not a nice night,” said Lewis, master of the understatement, following behind as Cowley pushed open the door to the holding room. Inside Paula Foster sat on a chair behind the table, dabbing her eyes with a soggy handkerchief. Cowley’s sharp eyes noted the embroidered initials C.L and he glared at Colin Lewis before taking a seat opposite her.

“Thanks for yer hanky,” Paula said to an embarrassed-looking Lewis, before she turned to Cowley. “I don’t know nuffink, ‘e just turned up for Christmas with his mates, that’s all ‘e told me, I swear it. I dunno anyfing else, I dunno what you’ve got me here for, I ain’t done nuffink – you can’t keep me here.”

Cowley just smiled at that last remark, and her eyes narrowed. “I mean it – you can’t keep me, whaffor? What’s the charge? I know my rights, you better believe I do. It’s Christmas Eve if you ain’t forgotten!”

“I am well aware of that fact,” Cowley said gravely, and the tone of his voice made her sit up slightly. “I am also well aware that one of my men has been seriously injured tonight.”

“I didn’t know they had no guns,” she said quickly. “Honest – he just turned up and said he and his mates needed a place to crash. Said it would be just until Boxing Day, like, give me some company. I didn’t… well, I didn’t fink I could say no, to be honest. He’s, well… we…” she tailed off with a slight blush.

“Quite so,” said Cowley, the two words covering a wealth of meaning. The file had said she was a working girl, and now it looked like Davis could add ‘pimp’ to his illustrious CV. Cowley sat back with the appearance of all the time in the world. “I hear you bought yourself a new television a few days ago, in cash. Where did you get the money from, Miss Foster?”

She looked cagey, and her eyes wouldn’t meet his gaze. “The horses, I mean Les – he won it at the horses. It was my Christmas present he said, for letting him and the lads stay with me, and, um, share me time.”

“Like the flat was a present – you did pay in cash for the flat as well, didn’t you? My my, Davis has uncanny luck at the race track. What else has he bought you in return for your silence? We can trace everything you know. And you could be charged as an accessory, as well as under indecency laws.”

She licked her lips, and sat forward, clasping her hands together on the table. Her pink nail varnish was chipped.

“Look – alright, I know what you’re getting at. I always knew ‘e was a dodgy one; ‘e never said he was no angel, and nor did I, for that matter. He offered to get me off the streets and he did, and that’s what gets my loyalty. I weren’t gonna ask him where he gets his money – I don’t need no black eye ta very much. Did he rob it then, did he? I guess ‘e must’ve for the police to be after him,” she said, and her voice was bitter. “Something big was it?”

“Something worth killing an innocent man in a bank – I take it you do read the papers?”

“Oh!” She blinked down at the table. “I didn’t know they were into stuff like that.” She looked up again, directly at Cowley. “It wouldn’t have been Les; he’s not that sort of bloke. The other though, the big geezer, he weren’t nice,” and she pulled a face. “I might be many things, Mr Cowley, but I don’t hold wiv murdering innocent people. I’ll answer yer questions, but there’s not much I can tell.”

Cowley noted the inference that murdering guilty people might be okay in Paula’s world, but nodded at her compliance. “Thank you Miss Foster. Did Davis say anything about a deal going ahead, something he was waiting to happen?”

“They did seem a bit excited, dunno why, just sort of a bit gleeful, like. They didn’t say why.”

“Did they arrive with luggage?”

“A few bags between them – not that they changed their clothes, an’ I wish they did.”

“Was there any bag that seemed to have special significance?”

She screwed up her eyes in remembrance. “Now that you mention it, there was a navy holdall, like a sports bag – quite big, he carried it around with him everywhere, even to the loo. I thought… well, I decided not to think. Safer.”

“Did they mention any names?”

“They didn’t mention nuffink, not to me. To me it was all how’s yer farver or put the tea on.” Her voice was bitter again. “I thought he’d be better, I’d hoped he’d be – we had an arrangement.”

“Arrangements can always be broken, Miss Foster,” said Cowley, standing up. His voice, however, was sympathetic, and she gave him a hard glance. “Not by me,” she said, and then she looked away.

“See that she gets a hot drink, cigarettes if she smokes,” Cowley said to Lewis, who nodded as he held the door open.

“Mister?”

Cowley turned, and she was looking up at him, her expression unhappy. “He did mention a name. A bloke called Bagley, or Baddeley – something like that. Dunno know what connection, or anyfing, but he said it when he thought I was out of the room, ‘cept I was listening at the door. Something like when Bagley or Baddeley calls - something like that.”

Cowley nodded, and gave a brief smile, betraying nothing of his racing thoughts. “Thank you Miss Foster.” Lewis followed him outside, and pulled the door to behind him. “Bagley? Not --?”

“Richard Bagley at the Home Office has got more interests in Argentinean finance than you’ve got embroidered handkerchiefs, Lewis. The Home Secretary says he is above suspicion, and when anyone says that I get very suspicious indeed. But Bagley… I must say that is very surprising.” He slapped Lewis on the shoulder and strode off in the direction of the stairs, already pulling out his RT. “Betty – get me Trasker. I want his full report on Richard Bagley.”

And still the rain poured down outside the window.

o0o

Bodie was uncomfortably aware that a large dollop of that rain was slowly making inroads down his neck, but at the moment he was loathe to take his hands from the wheel. He had burst in on Barrett and Gray in the ninth floor flat, had had a brief fist-fight that ended when Barrett pulled a gun and fired, and had avoided the bullet by diving through a bedroom door only to be assaulted by a hysterical blonde wielding a white plastic handbag. Hearing Barrett and Gray running from the flat, he had managed to finally push the woman away and gone tearing after them, gun in hand, which he accepted with hindsight wasn’t the subtlest thing to do in front of the neighbours. Barrett and Gray had a good start on him, but he had been gaining when ahead of him there was a shot, and he had turned the corner to find McCabe down, blood already starting to spread from his chest, and the front entrance to the flats in the process of swinging shut.

Aware that his quarry was getting away, Bodie dropped to his knees beside McCabe, patted his pockets for his RT and cursed loudly in frustration when it had become apparent he'd left it behind. He’d quickly but gently felt beneath McCabe, and had seen the blood pooling under him. McCabe’s expression was one of shock, and he kept trying to speak. “’S okay,” Bodie had said to that expression, “it’ll be okay,” and had started to shrug out of his jacket to use it as packing when Lucas had rounded the corner from the back entrance and stopped dead.

It had taken Bodie’s angry voice, the one men obeyed without question in the SAS, to get Lucas moving, calling the ambulance, and taking over the first aid. Bodie had noticed Lucas’s hands were shaking as he bent over McCabe, tearing his own jumper off to pack the wound still harder, telling his mate to ‘breathe out, you bastard’ in a voice full of emotion. Bodie, back in his jacket, had briefly touched the top of Lucas’s head with a small pat of comfort, before legging it out the door in pursuit of Barrett and Gray. Luckily he had seen them in the distance breaking into a car, but a brief look around the car-park revealed the Capri had gone. However, he had spotted a fantastic car that might be worthy as a replacement… Seven minutes later he had skidded out of the car park, grinning devilishly as he spotted the other car speeding off in the distance.

And now he was driving with scant regard for the terrible conditions as he kept his foot on the accelerator, determined not to let them out of his sight. The car in front knew he was on their tail, and was taking stupid risks by speeding through red lights, but Bodie’s advanced driver training was so far counter-balancing all their tactics. Still, he wished he had his RT – although he imagined that they would have a police tail soon enough, so perhaps Cowley would put two and two together himself. He was good at that was the Cow, a damn sight too good at it, at times. Like that casual offer of a two-bed CI5 flat for him and Ray to share – just an aside thrown into the conversation after a recent triumph, and yet it had been enough to render speechlessness from two of the trio. There was no way Cowley could know… there was no way anyone could know, not about him and Ray… but there it was, that very strange offer on the table. Bloody triple-think…

The car in front swerved madly around a corner, and Bodie used the clutch as a brake, barely taking his foot off the accelerator as he threw his vehicle around after them. What price the Nürburgring? He grinned suddenly, and then thought of McCabe, and his smile winked out. CI5 was a small unit, barely forty operative agents, and everyone felt it when one of their number fell. To Bodie’s professional eye, it hadn’t looked good, and he guessed that Lucas knew that too. For a minute his hands tightened on the steering wheel, imagining it had been Doyle, and then he forced himself to relax. It wouldn’t happen to Doyle, it just wouldn’t, that was all. He drove on into the night, wishing again for his RT, and wriggling slightly as the large dollop of rain slid further between his shoulder blades.

o0o

Cowley was speaking once more into the black phone receiver. “I see… how is the surgery progressing? Yes. I understand… Thank you Doctor.” He replaced the receiver and sighed, as Betty brought in a cup of tea. She set it down on his desk, out of the way of the spread of paperwork.

“How is he, sir?”

“Still in surgery,” he said shortly, and then the black phone interrupted further conversation.

“Ah, Chief-Inspector Grant…”

Betty closed the door behind her, and went into her own office that she shared with Sarah, the other secretary, who was currently speaking into the telephone, and making notes. She put the receiver down and stood up. “That was Jane in the computer room - she has the run down on Graham Davis, Richard Bagley, and a James Pierce. I’ll go and collect them now.”

“Thanks Sarah,” Betty said, as the telephone on her desk began to ring.

“Any news on McCabe?” Sarah asked quickly before Betty picked it up.

“Nothing at the moment,” she said, and Sarah bit her lip as she left the room. Betty paused, and then picked up the receiver. “Home Affairs.”

“Chief-Constable Mitchell here, from the Hertfordshire Constabulary,” a gruff voice sounded down the line.

“Hello sir.” She flashed a look at the switchboard on her desk and could see Cowley’s line was engaged, so it was up to her to fill Mitchell in on the car chase that was likely to take place through his territory. She hoped he wouldn’t insist on speaking to Major Cowley, like Chief-Constable Harris from the Cambridgeshire police force. Harris had been most unwilling to take orders from a woman, even if that woman had held a place within CI5, an attitude she often came across when dealing with men in high positions. Luckily, for all his gruffness, Mitchell was responsive and reassuring, promising that he’d deploy his officers on stand-by if needed. The official line was to let the car-chase run its course, so Cowley could see where the rabbit would run, but if the roads could be clearer… “Yes sir, thank you sir,” she said, noting his home number in case Cowley wished to speak further with him.

Sarah came back, three manila files of differing thickness in her hands, and she knocked at Cowley’s office door, before heading through to his room. Betty took a quick sip of her own tea, and then her telephone rang again. “Home Affairs.”

“Grant here again, Chief-Inspector. Got some news for your Mr Cowley that he might like,” he said, and his voice sounded quite sprightly. Betty couldn’t help wondering what he looked like. The light was out on the switch-board, and her voice held a faint smile. “Well, in that case I’ll put you through straight-away.”

“Pip pip,” said the cheerful voice, and she connected up the call. “Chief-Inspector Grant sir, with some pleasing news, apparently!” she said, resisting the urge to tell Cowley to drink his tea. She was sure he’d forget, and couldn’t help worrying about things like that, even though she’d never say that to anyone, least of all to the Major himself.

Sarah was standing by his desk when he took the call from Betty. He was flicking rapidly through the file on James Pierce, and barely looked towards the phone as he spoke into the receiver. “Cowley.”

“Major? Grant here again. I’ve just had a patrol car on the blower to our head-quarters, some nutters on a car chase down the A10, heading towards Cambridge, coming from the direction of Tottenham.”

“Cambridge you say?” Cowley clicked his fingers at Sarah, who interpreted the click as ‘won’t-you-please-stay-in-the-room-Miss-Pritchard-as-you-might-be-very-helpful’, and so she waited patiently by his desk.

“Well, heading that way if my patrol car can be believed – he’s having a hard job keeping up sir. He’s relayed the number of the car he’s following; too far away to see the one in front of that more’s the pity, but good news on the license plate. The car belongs to a Mr Peter Smith, a resident of a certain block of flats in Tottenham. Currently, Mr Smith is at the door of his property speaking with one of my constables, so it’s not himself at the wheel, but it might be one of our absconders.”

“Perhaps,” said Cowley, refusing to commit more than that. “What make of car is doing the chasing?”

“You’ll like this – it’s a Delorean sports car. Mr Smith’s pride and joy. He usually parks it in a garage around the corner, but it was parked outside the flats tonight. Must be his unlucky night. Can’t tell the make of the car in front of that, but my men are on to it, sir.”

“A sports car eh?” Cowley thought that he may now know the whereabouts of agent 3.7. “Well done Grant.” He swivelled slightly in his chair and eyed the map on the wall. “Tell your men to set up traffic diversions, and try and keep the main road they are using as clear as possible. I think they will be continuing up past Hoddesdon.”

“Hunch sir?” Grant sounded keen.

“Hopefully more than a hunch, Chief-Inspector. Keep me updated.” He put the receiver down, and then turned to Sarah. “Get me the Chief-Constable for the Enfield Constabulary and Hunter for his report on James Pierce. In that order, Miss Pritchard.”

“Very good sir,” Sarah said, and she briskly left the office. Walking back into the room she shared with Betty, she heard the wind gather momentum and rattle the window pane. Both women looked up, their minds on car chases through the dark night.

o0o

Doyle had been in touch with Cowley twice more, each time the car in front had taken a new direction. For a while they had headed along the new section of motorway, the M25, which was better as it was straight (the Capri was infamous for its dislike of corners), but ever since Davis had hared off at the Potters Bar junction they were back on ‘A’ and ‘B’ roads, heading in a rather haphazard fashion towards Hertford, as far as Doyle could tell. He wasn’t totally sure, sign posts flashed by in a blur – such was his determination to keep to the tail lights of the car in front. Twice he’d come dangerously close to spinning off the road, wheels skidding on surface water. Each time he'd bitten his lower lip and fought to control the wheels, but he had had to drop back further, especially on these minor roads.

Cowley had informed him on his last hurried communication that his ‘other half’ was at the moment presumed to be part of a car chase now involving the majority of north London’s police force. Doyle had little to say by way of an answer, mainly because the Capri was balancing on two wheels around a corner, but also because he had been struck dumb by Cowley’s choice of words. This, on top of the shared flat conversation the other day? Just what was the wily old goat playing at? Doyle wasn’t particularly sure he wanted to find out - after all, if he himself couldn’t define what was going on between him and Bodie, then he sure as hell didn’t want a curious George butting in.

Still, he had to laugh, partly in relief it was fair to say, at the thought of Bodie also out there driving through the night – in a fucking Delorean, for crying out loud. The lucky git, he’d never hear the end of it… Doyle braced himself suddenly against the steering wheel as the tyres locked again underneath him, and he pumped the brake, changed down a gear, and only started breathing again when it became clear the car was still willing to be subservient. Yeah, he’d quite like a Delorean himself at the moment, although at least Davis in front had also slowed his suicidal speed through the country roads. Cowley had said Bodie (and his convoy) were heading towards Hoddesdon, and it looked like the ultimate destination for all would be somewhere in Cambridgeshire. That depended, of course, on whether the Capri decided it would prefer its ultimate destination to be in a hedge on route, thought Doyle grimly, chancing his foot on the accelerator. The road gleamed blackly in the car headlights, rain splattering upwards as it hit the subdued gold of the car bonnet.

o0o

Cowley ignored his cold cup of tea and frowned away into thin air. Trasker’s report on Richard Bagley had not recorded the movements of a guilty man. He’d instead been welcoming family to his home in Epping with a large glass of sherry and a small mince pie, as far as Trasker sitting outside in his car could determine. Hunter’s report on James Pierce was more suggestive – lights on in the garage and main room, a car being loaded with a suitcase. Of course, it was Christmas Eve, it could be that the man was readying for a journey, but somehow Cowley did not believe there would be turkey sandwiches at the end of it.

According to the file on Les Davis’ brother Graham, he was a mechanic/pilot at various airfields in Cambridge. James Pierce had a private plane. Could this be what he was looking for? If so – how had James Pierce known that the balloon had gone up in Tottenham? The only person not accounted for was…Cowley snapped his fingers. Of course – Paula Foster, she of the innocent blue eyes and the blonde curly hair. She’d had possibly a ten minute window of opportunity to telephone a warning to Pierce between Bodie chasing after Gray and Barrett, and Anson’s arrival at the flat. He snatched up the green phone receiver. “Betty – tell Lewis I want to speak again to Miss Foster. And get me Murphy. His leave has just been cancelled. His parents home is based near Bishop’s Stortford - close enough for what I think I might need.”

o0o

Bodie was thoroughly enjoying himself, and had been for the last half hour, apart from that dodgy interchange twenty miles back. As suspected, he had picked up three (he glanced quickly in the rear view mirror) no - four panda cars, all with sirens blaring noisily, to announce their passing through Buntingford. Barrett and Gray, ahead of him in their stolen Audi Quattro, must be as sick as pigs, and he was viciously glad of the fact.

So far they were keeping to the dual carriageway, which made things easy for all concerned, but surely they would make a break for it soon? Unless they were going all the way to Cambridge – Bodie tried to remember whether there had been any mention of Cambridge so far, but he couldn’t think of anything useful. Anson had studied at Cambridge, maybe it was him.

This stretch of road was fairly straight, with little traffic to avoid, so he allowed his mind to dwell on Doyle, last seen defying the laws of gravity following Davis down the stair-well. He wondered if Davis had been armed, but Doyle had his Browning, so… his thoughts went again to the shocked expression on McCabe’s face, and he shifted his hands on the steering wheel, again feeling the stickiness of blood. McCabe’s blood…He thought of Lucas, the way he had just stood there with that disbelieving expression – well they had been partnered for a few years now, same as him and Doyle in fact, although he doubted they had the same amount of fun…

He glanced in the rear view mirror, and suddenly realised the latest panda car was gaining on him. Bloody hell, didn’t they realise he was one of them? Sort of, he thought, as he put his foot down. The Delorean shot forward, and he smiled grimly at the surge of power. What was he thinking? Oh yes, him and Doyle, and fun. That wasn’t just all it was though, if he was honest with himself. And since he was being honest, than he might as well admit he rather liked the idea of a shared flat. Must be getting old, he thought, creasing his brow as a familiar noise on the edge of his hearing drew his attention. The noise came closer, and he peered up to it, laughing in sardonic disbelief. Cowley must be having a fit, he thought.

o0o

“Murphy on the line sir,” Betty said, and Cowley nodded. “Alpha One.”

“Sir – I’m at James Pierce’s residence, or at least I was,” Murphy said, his voice sounding faint through the car transmitter, and a good deal more amicable than it had when Betty had interrupted him during his father’s speech about how nice it was to have both of his sons home for Christmas.

“You was or you are?” Cowley pulled a face at the imprecise sentence. “Talk sense, 6.2!”

“Well I got to Great Chishill, and Hunter signalled that James Pierce was leaving. He seemed in a bit of a hurry, so I decided to follow him and see where he led me. So far he's taking me north – I’m hanging back as I don’t want him to realise he is being followed.”

Cowley closed his eyes briefly. So now he had three car chases converging upon Cambridge, one of which on the last count had picked up seven patrol cars in its wake, as well as a passing police helicopter.

“Right – stay with him 6.2 – do not alert him to your presence if you can help it. This will probably be our last communication via the car transmitter – your job is to inform me of your position the moment it becomes apparent which air-field he is heading to. That is imperative, no matter what the situation. Alpha out.”

Paula Foster had talked in the end, once she'd realised she would be charged as an accessory to murder. She’d made one phone call to a Mr James Pierce, as Davis had told her to do in the event that anything happened to him or to any of the others. He’d asked her to do it, she said, and to use the name of Bagley to throw them off the scent.

“You don’t understand,” she had said. “I told you he had my loyalty. I ‘ave a price for most things, Mr Cowley, but sometimes there’s a payback. That was my payback. Despite everything Les is, despite everything I am, I’m still grateful to him for getting me off the streets, an’ I hope he gets away with it.” After that she had refused to say anymore, although Cowley had taped enough of the conversation to have what he needed as evidence anyway.

Betty had gathered a list of operational air-fields in the Cambridgeshire area, as well as a few older RAF bases that were apparently defunct. James Pierce’ private plane was not in any of the usual hangers, although nine pm on Christmas Eve had not been the best of times for checking with the owners of small air-fields. He’d told Chief-Constable Harris of the Cambridgeshire constabulary to work with Betty on a collaborative list, and when he informed Betty of this fact he had wondered at the small smile that rested for a moment on her lips. The list however just highlighted the fact that James Pierce’ plane had gone off the radar, so to speak. Cowley walked across to his map and squinted at a large area of countryside holding three disused RAF bases. As Chief-Inspector Grant might have said, he had a hunch.

His last communication with Doyle was on the outskirts of Royston. The car transmitter and RT network only worked within a certain radius of London, hence his words earlier to Murphy, and he and Doyle both knew they were lucky to get any sort of signal. Doyle had said Davis was heading towards Melbourn and Meldreth, and that he’d keep his eyes out for James Pierce and a plane. Then the RT had cut out, this time for good, and Cowley looked up again at the rain-lashed window.

The Bodie circus had stayed together for a while, Cowley making frantic calls to the Police Helicopter Unit in Elstree to tell their hovering traffic spy to stop lighting up the road ahead like a Christmas beacon, before everything had changed at Royston. The Audi Quattro had made a break for it down a back road, the Delorean had gleefully revved gears and followed, and the panda cars had been left trailing in the wake, one unfortunately ending up in a ditch.

Now it was down to his agents, and Cowley didn’t doubt them for a second. They were the best, they were all the best, and he didn’t want to lose any of them. With that in mind, he glanced at the clock on the wall, and walked back towards his desk, perching on the side and pulling the black phone towards him. It was sadly a number that he didn’t need to look up – too many of his agents ended up in this particular hospital. The lucky ones, he supposed, waiting for the connection at the other end. The ones that made it as far as the hospital… Matheson and King hadn’t, nor had Williams, or Tony Miller, or Tommy McKay… Their faces flashed into his mind – the initial meeting, the groans about Macklin, ragging each other in a briefing, serious on a case – each one a credit to his organisation, and each one now with their own headstone.

“Ah Doctor Hedley – any news?”

“He’s just out of surgery, and it’s up to him now. We removed a .22-caliber bullet from the lower left lung, which had partly collapsed. Do you want the medical guff, George, or the bare bones?”

Cowley winced slightly. Doctors could be very visual at times… “Just the, uh, basic facts, if you please.”

“Well, the bullet did not damage his heart, nor his aorta, and there was no bleeding in the abdominal area. He is taking to the blood transfusion well, but he is not out of the woods yet. I'll keep you posted. Do you want to speak to your man here?”

“Yes.” Cowley waited for Lucas to come to the telephone, aware that he had been the one to greet McCabe’s father and sister at the hospital and sit with them in CI5’s private room.

“Sir.” Lucas’s voice sounded subdued and tired.

“I’ve spoken to Hedley, have you seen McCabe yet?”

“Can’t – he’s linked up to so many tubes. It’s going to be a long night, but I think he’s fighting.”

“Good man. And his father and sister?”

“Initially angry, at both CI5 and all who sail in her, and with McCabe for ever taking this job. Now they’re just… I think they're glad I stayed. As if I could be anywhere else… unless you want me out there after the bastards, sir?”

Cowley heard the small hitch in Lucas’ throat. What price loyalty… “No lad. I want you to stay there and report back to me if there is any change. And Lucas? The doctor told me what a fine job you did with the initial first aid. If he pulls through then he owes his life to you.”

Lucas managed a shaky laugh down the line. “Well, it works both ways, doesn’t it? I’ll keep you updated.”

Cowley replaced the receiver, and stared down blindly at the paperwork littering his desk. That was what it came down to, loyalty to your partner, and loyalty to your team. It was the way a small organisation could stand firm, and why men and women stood shoulder to shoulder against those who would seek its downfall. And sometimes loyalty became tangled with love, and he thought of Paula Foster, and then of two others, whose closeness was apparent but whose discretion couldn’t be faulted. He appreciated that in this organisation, but at the same time he’d like to know for sure. It was said of him that he knew what side of the bed his agents got up, and with who, and that was close to the truth. There were ways and means to get information of course, but with things like this, Cowley preferred the old-fashioned route of simply being trusted enough to be told by those directly involved. He had his own loyalty too.

He reached for his cup of tea in the hope that it would still be warm (it wasn’t) and decided that he’d rather a single malt instead. A few paces and he was at his cabinet, practised fingers opening the bottle and finding the heavy cut-glass tumbler. The phones, busy all day, were now quiet, as the various police factions had been stood down, leaving just Chief-Constable Harris’ unit on stand-by in Cambridgeshire. Now it was just a waiting game, and he turned from the cabinet, glass in hand, looking towards the window, listening to the wind whip around the old building with its unearthly howl. And underneath that, a song…

He frowned and then glanced over to Betty’s office. Yes, there was a definite tune (of sorts, his classic-sensibilities sniffed), and he walked across to the door, pushing it open to find Betty retreating from the small transistor she had sitting next to a little silver tinsel Christmas tree on the window sill.

“Oh sorry sir, I just turned this one up a little, should I turn it down again?” She paused, ready to comply with his wishes.

“Ah no, let’s hear it,” he said, swirling his whisky in the glass, and suddenly feeling a bit old. Betty smiled at him, and her eyebrows rose pointedly at the glass of whisky in a humorous rebuff as she continued sorting out some paperwork on her desk.

It'll be lonely this Christmas
Without you to hold
It'll be lonely this Christmas
Lonely and cold
It'll be cold, so cold
Without you to hold
This Christmas

The mournful tune sang out of the radio, out into the darkness beyond the window. He frowned into his glass; he knew there were people out there that enjoyed getting maudlin at this time of year, but this was ridiculous. He looked up and caught Betty’s gaze, which had been wistfully on the radio. She noticed the look, and coloured slightly. “You don’t like this one?”

“No I don’t,” he said with feeling, as the words continued to spout about a Christmas all alone, with tears melting the snow. “It serves no good purpose.”

“But I think it’s to remind us of the opposite, of the people we do have around us,” Betty said earnestly, as Sarah came back into the room with two coffees, one of which she placed on Betty’s desk. She wrinkled her nose at the radio. “Oh I hate this one.”

Cowley almost laughed at Betty’s face. Instead he covered his smile with a sip of his drink. The phone on Betty’s desk rang, and instantly the room was again on red alert, Sarah turning down the radio, and Cowley already retreating to his own desk, to his phones.

“It’s the Home Secretary,” Betty said, and Cowley collected himself for a second, before picking up the black receiver. “Cowley.”

“George. Do you have the blueprints?” The current Home Secretary was a clever man, but too short-sighted, in Cowley’s opinion.

“Not yet, the operation is still going ahead as planned.”

“Damn-it-all, this is blessed inconvenient, George. I’m at a sit down dinner for fifty here, and I’d rather hoped I’d hear good news before the cheese and biscuits.”

Tactless, Cowley mentally added to his list of dislikes. Annoying, there was another one… “My men are out there working on it, sir, and I hope to bring you good news to allay your indigestion. That is, of course, if the news about one of your own men, James Pierce, has not already spoiled your appetite? There will be a further enquiry on that, shall we say, lapse of judgement, of course.”

There was a short silence down the line, and Cowley smiled into it.

“Call me the minute something happens, Cowley.” The Home Secretary rang off, and Cowley slammed the receiver down with a little more force than necessary. A sit down dinner for fifty indeed…

The black phone rang again, and it was Chief-Constable Harris on the direct line. “Major?”

“Speaking,” Cowley felt his pulse quicken at the urgent tone of Harris’ voice.

“Not sure what has happened, but there have been reports of a large explosion at the old RAF base, near Malton. My men are heading there now…”

“Explosion?” Cowley’s voice betrayed his dismay. “What do you mean, man?”

“Just what I said – reports have come in from the farm at Orwell, and from residents in Meldreth, about a huge noise and then flames leaping into the sky. It’s an isolated area, heavy wood and farmland, no properties for miles – it must have been one hell of a bang for them to see it. I’m heading there now myself, ETA twenty minutes.”

“Call me the minute you have an update - the minute, you hear?” Cowley replaced the receiver and stared into space. What the hell had happened? He had three agents out there in the darkness, and… damn it; he should be out there himself. He looked up to see both Betty and Sarah standing at his door, their eyes wide. Betty recovered first. “Sorry sir, we just overheard…”

Cowley brushed aside her words with his more forceful sentence. “Get me the Police Helicopter Unit. I want transport here now to take me to Malton in Cambridgeshire.”

“Yes sir,” Betty said and nodded, disappearing back inside her sanctum. Sarah, ever practical, went across to one of the filing cabinets in Cowley’s office, digging out the file on Cambridgeshire, ready to cross check references if needed.

Cowley tried both Doyle and Murphy’s car transmitters in the meantime, although he knew they wouldn’t work. Both dead, he thought, replacing the receiver, before being struck by gloomy forebodings. He shook himself briskly, and was soon in a deep conversation with the chief of the Police Helicopter Unit for, a helicopter already deployed from Thames Valley. He checked again with Lucas, still no change in McCabe’s condition, and then the black phone rang with its shrill alarm. Cowley snatched at the receiver.

“Major? The preliminary report’s come in from my men – looks like a small aircraft’s gone up in a ball of flames. The local fire engine has turned up – like pissing on a bonfire my man said, excuse his French. There’s a building, possibly an old hanger, which is also alight. And two cars, both in flames.”

“Cars? Make?”

“He reckons a Ford Escort, and a Capri. Your man was driving a Capri, wasn’t he?”

Cowley ignored the question. “Any bodies, Chief Constable?”“Potentially four – between the plane and the hanger. All dead. And – hold on, I’m just getting another report in…” Cowley could hear the half-spoken words mixed with the whine of radio feedback, and then a flatly spoken ‘oh, right,’ and Harris was back with him.

“Major? I’m sorry to inform you this, but my man has recovered two CI5 ID cards from near the bodies.”

Cowley suddenly found he had to force his voice to speak past the constriction in his throat. “Who?”

“Ray Doyle and William Bodie. I’m sorry Major,” said Harris sincerely, and yet Cowley could not respond, and just lowered the receiver to his knee. His mind raced in several directions at once – death was always out there for them, he knew that, but at the same time…Harris’s men would not know what Doyle or Bodie looked like, and Cowley just wouldn’t believe, he refused to believe it was them until he had seen the bodies with his own eyes.

He brought the receiver back up and his voice was terse. “I’m on my way; I want the whole area searched – if there are three bodies then there are still five people left unaccounted for, and some may be armed and dangerous. Warn your men, and call me with updates,” he said, and he slammed the receiver down so hard that the telephone moved slightly across his desk. He stayed sitting still for a further thirty seconds, and then thumped the desk hard with his fist.

“Sir? The helicopter is here. The pilot is waiting for you in reception,” said Sarah, her voice solemn, framed in the doorway. She had in her arms his heavy coat, and he nodded his acknowledgement of her thoughtfulness, shrugging into it, issuing a few orders about contact numbers. Before he left the room he glanced towards the now silent radio, and all of them remembered the song from earlier in the silence before he left the room.

It'll be lonely this Christmas…

o0o

The flames generated by the explosion threw uneven and treacherous shadows across the muddy terrain of the field. Cold rain splattered down, hard and unrelenting, making the ground a quagmire to transverse, greedily tugging at ankles and holding onto shoes. His training, fashioned in hot sun and moulded on the hillsides of Wales, distinguished the high whine of a bullet within the sound of the wind, and Bodie threw himself down, a splatter of mud kicking up to his side as the bullet spent its killing energy instead into the dirt. He quickly wiped mud across his face, in a bid to stop the moon turning traitor.

Unlike the sod in front…

Bodie had recognised James Pierce straight away; from the moment he had rounded the scene at the air-field firing from the window of the skidding Delorean and unfortunately running out of road. The next thing Bodie knew was he was slumped on the floor of an old office, the smell of mildew and petrol in his nostrils, and Doyle was crouched beside him running his hands over his body, checking for the injury. He had stopped when Bodie opened his eyes, and had gently laid a hand on his forehead in a soft caress, while saying the tender words “a fucking Delorean, Bodie, where the hell did you get that?”

It turned out that his crash had ended the stand-off between Doyle and Davis, already on the scene, and both their guns and IDs were confiscated, before they were thrown ignominiously into the only room that could be locked inside the hanger. After satisfying himself that Bodie still had his wits about him despite the bruise forming on his forehead, Doyle had gone to the door and listened, and then said it sounded like they were exchanging the blueprints for money, which James Pierce had brought in a suitcase. While he had been doing that, Bodie managed to get to his feet, ignoring the slight thump of a headache, and wondered at the logic of locking them inside a ground floor office with a large window. Doyle had turned from the door and grinned at him with the same realisation, moonlight catching his chipped tooth, and Bodie had neatly smashed the glass, giving them an exit at the back of the hanger. They’d spotted Pierce making a break for it across a field, carrying what looked like the blue holdall, and some instinct, the same instinct that kept them alive on any street, had made them follow.

Minutes later the plane had blown up. It seemed James Pierce had decided to pay for the blueprints with a bomb instead of cash. And now they were out on his trail with no guns and only a Swiss army knife and sheer bloody-mindedness between the pair of them.

Pierce was picking a diagonal trail way across the large field, every so often swinging around and firing his gun in their general direction. He had a good eye, and Bodie spat out the latest mouthful of muddy puddle from his most recent dive. He closed one eye, checked his vision, and then did the same for the other. No spots, which was a good thing, although he still had a faint double-thump underneath his eyelids, signifying he was in for a killer of a headache. He must have cracked his head on the steering wheel; he didn’t honestly remember. Doyle would tell him… he turned to look for Doyle, and didn’t see him. Then there was a flump and a splash, and Doyle was in the same puddle as himself, curled half over him. Mud camouflaged his face, and his curls were flattened with the weight of the water.

“There’s a barn or something over there, I think he’s heading that way. How many shots has he had?”

“Four,” said Bodie, and they exchanged a look.

“So four to go, maybe? Keep your head down, sunshine,” Doyle said, squeezing Bodie’s arm, and he sprang up and darted off to the left. Bodie broke cover with him, aiming to the right, slipping slightly, cursing as he almost left his shoe behind, and gaining perhaps two yards before dropping down again. Zis is a slow advance Herr Capitan, he thought, blinking up through the rain to fix his sight on where they were heading. A large black object rose out of the gloom– yes, some sort of shed or barn, perhaps. Did Pierce think he could hole up in there? He must be crazy if he thinks he can get away with this - although not half as crazy as the idiots chasing him, he thought, pushing off from the squelching mud and gaining what felt like inches, rather than feet.

“You’re surrounded - give yourself up, Pierce!”

Only Ray Doyle could produce that bull-throated roar, loud enough to be heard through the wind and rain. Bodie realised with a start that Doyle was a lot closer to Pierce than he was himself, and that, good and fair copper he once was, he was trying to bluff this to a conclusion without more blood-shed. Our blood, thought Bodie, using the moment to move stealthily towards them.

“Shoot me then! You’ll have to kill me!”

With pleasure, mate, thought Bodie, listening to what he could hear of Pierce’ answering shout, and then he heard the bark of the gun again, and was back on the ground, face in wet mulching leaves this time. He could pinpoint the make of the gun now from its noise, a Walther P38, and in that case Pierce would have three bullets left. They were doing a good job of getting him to panic and expel them, but the closer they got the bigger the risk. Still… Bodie pushed himself up again, feeling the drag of his mud-caked clothes, and he crouched as he ran forward. It looked like Pierce had ducked into the barn… and Doyle was… Doyle was lying on the ground.

Bodie checked his direction and ran towards Doyle instead, keeping a wary eye on the barn. By the time he got there Doyle was trying to sit up, waving Bodie away at first, but then giving in to the muddy hand to get him back on his feet.

“Get him! I’m fine – go after him!” Doyle said, his face thin-lipped and mud-streaked pale, but he was managing to stand, with a hand gripping his thigh, and so Bodie gave him a hard look before running towards the barn. As he did there was a full throttle sound of a motorbike, and Bodie, feeling the ground beneath his feet finally more gravel than mud, put on a spurt of speed. The barn door banged open, and James Pierce emerged on the bike, clutching the blue holdall. Bodie swerved out of the way of the single headlight, and made a clutching grab for the holdall as Pierce revved the engine to shoot forward. For a minute there was a brief tug-of-war, and both their eyes met, deadly and determined. Pierce wavered dangerously on the bike, one hand on the bar, close to losing balance and his grip on the holdall started to slip. Bodie took advantage of this and suddenly pulled back with all his weight, snatching the bag from Pierce’ grip and diving into the barn with it. Pierce managed to keep the bike from going over and turned in a semi-circle, looking like he was going to ride into the barn and start firing.

“Pierce, you’re surrounded! Give up!” Doyle yelled from the darkness, and that was the decider for Pierce, who revved the engine and obviously decided he’d prefer to make a break for it, kicking up gravel and water in his bid to leave the scene. He shot off into the night dangerously fast, and the sound slowly diminished. Doyle limped up to the dark mouth of the barn. Bodie appeared at the doorway, and they both listened to the fading engine.

Bodie grinned and put his arm around Doyle’s neck, bringing their heads together briefly in a release of adrenalin. He let go again, still grinning, turning into the barn.

“Did you get the bag?” said Doyle, his voice tight.

“Didn’t you see me? Check if there’re any lights around, will you?” Bodie crouched down by the navy holdall, using the moonlight spilling in through the open barn door as he opened the zip.

Doyle sniffed the air, and smelt the strong smell of harvested hay. He started to check the walls around the door, and took his hand off his thigh to stretch upwards in the hope of finding a switch. The moonlight revealed his hand covered with something that dripped blackly, the moon sucking colour from the world so everything was in shade. Doyle stared at his hand, and then down at his thigh. The denim was soaked through and dark, but it was darker still at his thigh, and not from mud, he thought. He frowned at it, and continued checking the wall, before noticing something hanging from a sturdy nail.

“Paraffin lamp, if you’ve got a working lighter,” he said, limping over to where Bodie was holding a roll of paper up to the moonlight, and studying it intently. “They them?”

Bodie turned with a smile, which changed to a frown as he saw something in his eye line. “What the…” he glanced up at Doyle, and quickly stuffed the plan any-old-how back into the navy holdall, before carefully unclamping Doyle’s fingers from his thigh.

“Bullet crease, nothing too unnerving… get that? Unnerving,” Doyle repeated, but he had no energy left to laugh, and let Bodie steer him gently backwards to sit on a hay bale by the side of the barn door. Bodie worked quickly in the moonlight, aware of his numb muddy fingers and how much they were both shivering now the adrenalin was spent.

“Bit more than a crease,” said Bodie, ripping the denim back slightly and peering at the wound. He went to touch it, and then grimaced at his hands, rubbing them down his trousers, not sure if he was transferring more mud that way. He then spat on his hands, before looking despairingly back up at Doyle.

“I had my hands on it, and I’m not sure where my hands have been either,” Doyle said, and for a moment his eyes flickered in amusement.

“Okay, there must be something around here that’s useful, it’s a barn for God’s sake,” said Bodie, straightening, and going back to the paraffin lamp. He pulled his sodden lighter out of his pocket, shook it, and then flicked the flint - once, twice before it lit. He touched the flame to the cotton-soaked paraffin, and then held the lamp high, shadows dancing around him.

It was obviously a barn used for hay storage, and he moved towards the only room that looked likely to yield what he needed. Inside there were faded farming charts pinned to the wall, strange pieces of rusting equipment on the floor, and an old horsebrush redundant on a desk. The desk was also home to an old cloth, and Bodie grabbed at it, taking it and the lamp back to Doyle. He set the lamp down on the stone floor, and light spun out in a circle from it, throwing their profiles into sharp relief, and making their shadows loom up against the barn wall.

“So we are reckoning that old bit of cloth is cleaner than our hands, are we?” Doyle had both his hands pressed again to his thigh.

“We are reckoning that there is a good chance it hasn’t swum through a sea of cow shit, yes,” Bodie replied and knelt down at Doyle’s feet, biting the edge and then tearing the cloth into long strips.

“Cow shit? That, my son, was a crop field. Cows wouldn’t have been anywhere near it.”

“And just how on earth do you know that?”

“Just do,” Doyle said, and he grinned boyishly, before wincing as Bodie began tying the home-made tourniquet around his thigh.

“Christ Bodie, that’s tight,” he said, and Bodie just gave him a look, making it a little bit tighter. He then used the remaining strips to bandage up the leg, trying to keep the sodden denim out of the way. The blood didn’t bleed through immediately, although a red spot soon appeared, and then another. Bodie bit his lip, and gently ran his hand over the bandage. “Best I can do for now, old son,” he said, and looked up to find Doyle’s eyes on him.

“Less of the old, thank you,” he said, but he covered Bodie’s cold fingers with his own, and squeezed them. “And thank you,” he said, and Bodie grinned up at him, entwining his fingers with Doyle’s, before letting go and standing up. A full body shiver seemed to penetrate deep to his bones, and he knew there were other, less obvious, dangers, that crept through the dark and the cold.

“Best shut that door,” Doyle said, reading his thoughts, and he made to get up to do it himself.

“Steady on, Larry,” Bodie said, “you just sit there and take the weight off your size-nine’s…” He dragged the barn door closed, and then the only light was from the flickering flame contained in the lamp on the floor.

“I thought you were a nice boy…” Doyle paraphrased tiredly, and then he shivered, a long racking shudder that shook his hands momentarily from his thigh. “Best use this hay I reckon…”

“Make hay while the lamp shines, eh?” Bodie said, and he picked up the light, once again holding it high. “One sec,” he said to Doyle, and he made a quick search of the building. There was only one way in, a rickety top level accessed by a wooden stair-case of dubious strength, a pile of stored hay bales opposite and the office offering the solitary horse brush. Not all that promising, he thought, and came back to Doyle.

“If I steady you, can you make it across the room?” The hay was thicker over there, more chance of bedding in and getting warm.

“Yes, I think so,” Doyle said, and he slung his arm around Bodie’s neck. Bodie gripped his arm with his hand, and hoisted him up, Doyle stumbling slightly.

“Just don’t put me in a manger, Bodie,” he said, and they both shared a glance of amusement. Bodie turned his head suddenly and kissed Doyle’s thin muddy fingers, as Doyle was always Doyle, no matter what was going on. Doyle tightened his grip and leant into Bodie, absorbing some of his strength as they made it across the barn and Bodie let him down gently on another hay bale. Being away from the draught creeping in from the barn door was already a plus point, and Doyle closed his eyes for a second, before opening them again to see Bodie standing in front of him in deep shadow, his back to the lamp on the floor.

“Your thigh’s bleeding again,” he said, and Doyle looked down at the spreading blood on the bandage and pressed his hand to it.

“It’ll be alright until morning,” he said, although there was doubt under his words, and Bodie frowned at him for even suggesting such a thing. “No it won’t, I’ll go for help.”

“Bodie,” Doyle began, and then he stopped, looking at the set expression on Bodie’s face. He lifted his bloody hand from his thigh, and debated his injury. Bodie was right, and he knew it. “Alright,” he said, and pulled himself more upright. “But you’re taking my coat as well – help me with it,” and he started shrugging it off.

“Ray, I’m not having you go into shock or freeze to death in here,” said Bodie, going over to him. “And what makes you think I’ll want your coat? It’s as wet as mine!”

Doyle pulled his arm out the sleeve with difficulty. “I’m not going to freeze with all this hay around me, and you can wrap my coat around yours to try and keep a bit of warmth in you. I’m not having you go into shock or freeze to death out there, either!”

They glared at each other, Doyle still pulling himself out of his coat, and Bodie nodded. “Okay,” he agreed, and he pulled Doyle’s checked coat over his own. “Good thing this is stretchy,” he said, feeling the warmth of fabric that had been close to Doyle’s body, even though it was still mostly damp with mud. He negotiated his cold fingers around some buttons, and then tugged the zip on his own jacket back up to his neck. “Keep your hands on that thigh,” he admonished, as Doyle started pulling hay over his legs and around his shoulders.

“I will, I will – and Bodie? No heroics – there must be a farmhouse nearby.” He finished patting the hay covering him with his free hand, and looked directly into Bodie’s eyes. “Follow the road, no going off cross-country – you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Bodie said, but still he lingered. “Don’t close your eyes.”

“I won’t, Bodie,” he said, and there was a world of warmth in his words. He smiled suddenly, despite the pain he was in. “I think we’ll tell Cowley we’ll take that shared flat after all. Give the old goat some triple-think of his own to play with.”

Bodie watched how the soft lamp-light played over his face, and grinned – it was all for him, it was always for him. “Sounds good to me.”

“Good, that’s settled then,” said Doyle. “Don’t be too long, will you?” He could feel more blood under his hand.

Bodie nodded, understanding at once, and as he slipped out of the barn door he raised a hand in farewell.

o0o

Murphy’s call had finally come in, having been redirected from HQ to the helicopter communications. He had seen Pierce pull off onto a road that led to an old RAF base, and had driven past, following orders to find a phone and report his whereabouts. The first road he had driven down had been flooded, the second road had led to a bog, and the third route had taken him miles out of his way with nary a house in sight. Cursing the Bermuda Triangle effect of certain parts of the English countryside, he finally spotted a thatched cottage with telegraph wires, and banged loudly on the door, waking up all the occupants. He had spent the majority of his call to Cowley being eyed up like a lean piece of meat by a hungry housewife while her husband made tea and their children wondered why Father Christmas didn’t have on his red suit. Cowley had bade Murphy to join him at RAF Malton, and Murphy had rang off with a hollow-sounding ‘ho ho ho’, something he regretted as soon as he faced the children of the house clamouring for presents.

o0o

The helicopter set Cowley down in the air-field, the fire from the burning plane acting as a beacon from the air, although the flames were diminishing in their ferocity with the dual actions of the rain and the fire-brigade. He went first to check the four recovered bodies, now being loaded into two ambulances, tensing each time the sheet was pulled back, only to fractionally relax when the man revealed was neither Bodie or Doyle, instead recognising Davis, Gray, Barrett and Davis’ brother Graham from the police file.

“These were all of them?” he asked, turning from the last one as the ambulance man pulled the red sheet up again.

“Yes, no more bodies have been recovered, although the plane itself might reveal more when it is cool enough to check – not your men, Major?” Harris stood at the doors of the ambulance, dressed in his black raincoat, peaked hat keeping the wandering rain off his face.

“Not my men,” Cowley replied, hiding the relief he felt. He descended from the ambulance, and gazed thoughtfully around the area. Two fire-crews were tackling the blazing plane, and another fire-crew was playing a hose of water over the steaming hanger, or what was left of it. Headlights from cars and ambulances lit up the sodden earth, throwing the bare trees into sharp contrast. Three more cars had been found, one parked around the side of the hanger registered to James Pierce, one Audi Quattro still in a usable condition, and a Delorean parked in a tree.

“I want your men to search this area thoroughly – this isn’t over yet,” he added, and strode over to Harris’ car, which he had commandeered for his own. He ducked out of the rain and sat in the front seat, pulling the radio towards him.

“Patch me through to Home Affairs HQ,” he said to the operator, and then waited until he heard Betty speak from Whitehall. “Betty? I need addresses of any farms, houses, cottages – anything in a five mile radius around Malton… Bodie and Doyle are still on the trail… what’s that? Well, that is good to hear, very good indeed.”

He put the radio down and closed his eyes for a second. Then he briskly got out of the car, and walked across to where Chief-Constable Harris was standing staring at the Delorean, and he smiled, the first smile Harris had seen on his face.

“Everything alright, Major?”

“I’ve just had some good news,” Cowley said enigmatically, before continuing “now, about this search…”

o0o

In a London hospital, McCabe had woken up and seen his father and sister. Lucas had breathed out in relief, and called the news in to Betty, before going back into the room. McCabe couldn’t talk past the tube in his mouth, but had managed, with guidance, to write a note for Lucas, which simply said, ‘hands off the nurse, she’s mine’.

o0o

Before finding a farmhouse, Bodie had discovered the crashed motorbike in a ditch and the body of James Pierce below it. He had scrambled down the bank and checked the body, but it had quickly become apparent that was all it was, and as such he didn’t waste any further time on it.

The moonlight washed over the lane, creating an alien landscape of shade and tone to navigate, with the ground underfoot soft with mud and criss-crossed by deep puddles created by old tyre tracks. Briar brambles swiped at his face as he pushed past them, the cold now an ache in his bones, his headache now steadily thumping away with a drum beat to make Ringo Starr proud. A faint dizziness was also snatching at his senses, but he ignored it and pushed on regardless, almost missing the opening in the hedgerow that was deep in shadow. As it was he hit his hand on a stone pillar containing a letter box, and then he looked up and realised he had found the farmhouse.

It was set in darkness and shadows, but Bodie could tell it had seen better days. Nature had taken over the garden, and the building itself was old and ramshackle. He looked up into the clear night, wondering if he had made it to a dud, but then saw the telegraph wires. Halleluiah, Bodie thought, and he thumped his fist hard on the sturdy wooden door, cupping his hands around his eyes to peer through the frosted glass of the narrow window. No answer was forthcoming, and he stepped back slightly, looking for a bell-pull, finding one covered in curling ivy. He yanked it, and heard the reverberations echo within the house. He thought he would give it five more minutes and break in, but then a single light appeared in the window – a candle, he thought fleetingly, before quickly shouting “hello? I need your help! Do you have a telephone?”

“Hello?” It was an old woman who answered from behind the sturdy oak of the door, her voice thin and wavering. He saw the candle, if that’s what it was, steadied and put down on something the other side of the frosted glass.

“There’s been an accident, I need an ambulance. Have you got a phone, a telephone?” Bodie called, resisting the strong urge to start kicking at the door.

“Who are you?” The door stayed firmly shut. “What accident?”

“There is someone hurt in a barn up the road, and I need to use your phone,” Bodie said forcefully.

“No one lives in any barn up the road!” The woman’s voice was scornful. “I’m calling the police if you don’t go away.”

“I’m,” Bodie closed his eyes briefly, “a policeman. I need your help!”

“That’s what they all say,” the woman said, “go away!”

Bodie bit down the words he wanted to say. Instead he tried to stay polite. “Okay, tell you what – call the police. Call them now, and tell them to bring an ambulance. Can you do that missus?” he said, and leaned his forehead against the wooden door.

“I’m dialling 999!” The woman said defiantly from behind the door, and he heard her shuffle away.

“Fucking…” Bodie walked a few paces back, and then paced forwards again, listening against the door. He kicked a small stone and sent it flying into the black undergrowth. “Come on, come on!” he growled under his breath and then he listened again carefully at the door, hearing her footsteps.

“They’re sending someone to arrest you! The police are coming!”

“Good! Are they sending an ambulance?”

There was a pause, and then the woman spoke again. “I said about the ambulance. What barn did you say?”

“Up the lane, about half a mile, stores hay. How long did the police say they’d be?”

“Oh they’ll be here soon, don’t you worry. Don’t know why you picked tonight of all nights to do your looting…”

“I’m not doing any looting!” Bodie called indignantly.

“All mercenaries, you are…”

“No we’re…um…” Bodie rested his forehead against the door again, as another wave of dizziness caught him. “Look, I’m grateful to you for calling the police.”

“Grateful? Are you homeless? Looking for a warm bed for the night, I bet,” carried on the cackling voice from behind the door.

“Anything warm sounds nice at the minute,” Bodie muttered against the door. In the distance he heard sirens. “Ah, the cavalry advances.”

“All you young people should be out working, not knocking on people’s doors at midnight.”

“I am working,” Bodie said miserably, and he turned as he heard a police car skid to a halt outside the hedgerow, flashing lights creating a merry-go-round of colour. He wearily placed both his hands on his head, feeling the mud in his hair.

“Police! Put your hands… um… Stay where you are!” The first policeman came down the path with his stick held aloft, and Bodie eyed it with contempt. “I’m with CI5, and I need to make a call to a Major George Cowley, I can give you the direct number” Bodie said flatly. He’d been in this situation before and it was nearly always arrest and book first, before the phone call was allowed and the grovelled apology. “I also need an ambulance sending to the barn half a mile up this path, where my colleague is seriously wounded. And a dead body needs collecting from a ditch, if you’d be so kind.”

“He said he wanted an ambulance,” the woman’s voice was behind him, but closer now, having emerged from her barricade behind the sturdy wooden door. He half-turned, keeping his hands on his head, and saw her peeking around the gap, face haloed by white curls. He guessed she was in her eighties.

“Don’t get cold,” he said to her, before the policeman grabbed his arms and brought them down and around his back. He felt the handcuffs snap on his wrists, and sighed in frustration, before a shiver rattled the metal. “Did you call for an ambulance?” he asked the policeman, as he was turned around to face him, the man checking in his pockets, and looking disgustedly at the mud transferring to his hands.

“We’ll ask the questions, thank you,” said the second policeman coming up the path, an older man with a beard, and presumably senior. “What were you doing harassing this lady?”

“He wanted an ambulance!” The woman had edged a little further out now, wrapped up warm in a red quilted dressing-gown, and her voice was indignant. “Have you called him an ambulance? Something about people living in Hays Hill barn – no one lives in Hays Hill barn. He’s probably quite delirious.”

“Yes Mrs King, thank you,” The coppers exchanged a look, and Bodie wondered if Mrs King was well-known for being slightly peculiar.

“If you are with CI5, where's your ID?” said the first policeman. “Nothing in his pockets,” he said as aside to the older policeman. “Looks like a vagrant.”

“I’m here because I need an ambulance, and my ID is currently in the custody of a vicious bank robber with a squint,” Bodie said angrily, with careful emphasis on each word. “Is that good enough for you? Who’s your chief constable? I want to speak to him.”

Again the policemen exchanged a look. The older one looked at him shrewdly. “Who did you say you want to speak to again at CI5?”

“Major George Cowley.” Bodie stared at him, not backing an inch.

The older policeman nodded slowly, and turned to the other. “Bring him to the squad car and we’ll radio it in, see if he is who he says he is.”

The younger one tugged on Bodie’s arm, pulling at his handcuffed wrists, and they left Mrs King in the porch of her dilapidated farm-house as they went to the car, its light still flashing around and around. Bodie blinked at it, and swallowed suddenly, trying to bank down the feeling of nausea. If he carried on at this rate he’ll be in the hospital bed beside Doyle, he thought, and then he blinked again, trying to clear his thoughts. The older policeman was sitting in the front seat of the car, and Bodie heard him ask to be put through to his chief constable, a man called Harris. A few hurried conversations later, and Bodie was flexing his newly-freed wrists and speaking to George Cowley at Malton via the police radio. He quickly explained the situation with Doyle, the recovery of the blueprints and the demise of James Pierce almost as an after-thought, which was also the way Cowley dealt with the news, cutting him off mid-sentence about Pierce and issuing instructions to the helicopter pilot to get straight along to the barn at the end of the field, and then take the man he found inside by air to the nearest hospital.

“Murphy will go with the helicopter, Bodie, as well as one of the ambulance men, and we’ll radio you in your present location when we have him. And – well done, Bodie.”

“Thanks sir,” said Bodie, and he handed the radio back to the bearded policeman, the younger one now acting very reverent in his presence. There was a noise from behind him and he turned to see the elderly Mrs King had come down her pathway to join them.

“So you are a policeman, young man?” she asked him.

“Sort of,” he said, giving her a grin, noticing that for all her peculiar ways, she still had the presence of mind to wear thick Wellingtons with her dressing gown.

“You’re a bit dirty,” she said, looking him up and down.

“I feel a bit dirty,” he said, and then he chuckled, thinking of Doyle, and how he could feel even dirtier. Then his laughter dissipated, and he looked up at the now clear Christmas early morning, hoping the helicopter had found Doyle as he had left him.

“You probably would like a bath,” said Mrs King, and Bodie was startled to find he had forgotten her for a moment, and equally disturbed at the way she looked like she’d like to drag him by his ear to the village pump.

The bearded policeman stopped talking on the radio, and signalled to his colleague. “Mr Bodie, we are going to take a look up the lane to see where the body is, and see if it’s accessible. You can’t usually get vehicles down that lane beyond this farm-house in winter, it becomes impassable, so it’s a good thing they are sending a helicopter for your friend. If you’d care to stay here with the car and the radio, chief-constable Harris said the helicopter will radio in on this frequency. I’ve turned the car heater on, Mr Bodie, you look like you need the warmth.”

Bodie nodded impatiently at the policeman, and forced himself to be charitable. “Cheers,” he managed, settling himself in the front seat. The policemen stumped off together down the lane, lighting the way ahead with a large torch, and Mrs King was nowhere to be seen, so he shut the door, leaned back in the seat and gratefully shut his eyes. Five minutes later the call came through on the radio.

“Bodie?” It was Murphy’s voice, accompanied by the sound of a helicopter.

“Murph?”

“We’ve got him. The ambulance man is checking him over now, but I think he'll be alright. Needs the hospital of course, but he'll be okay. Apart from that sense of humour of his - the first thing he asked me was which wise man I was, and where was his present. Flipping cheek…”

Bodie chuckled delightedly, and he heard Murphy’s rich laughter over the background noise of the helicopter.

“Can I speak to him?” he asked.

“Not at the moment, he’s under the tender administration of the ambulance bloke. We’re going to direct to the Queen Elizabeth hospital. See you there? Doyle said you probably had a mild concussion yourself…”

“Looks like he’s the wise man… yeah, slight concussion, I’ll get it checked out there. Thanks Murph,” said Bodie, and he put down the radio, about to settle back and close his eyes when he saw the quilted figure of Mrs King standing again by the window. He wound it down, and looked up as he heard a helicopter passing over, smiling as he saw it pass over them in the sky.

“Is that for your friend in the barn?” Mrs King said. He looked up at her and nodded, thinking that she was a hardy old soul, out here in the early hours of the morning.

“Is he a very important man, your friend?”

Bodie smiled. “Very important,” he said, knowing the truth of his words.

“Oh. Well, in that case…” and she brought out a little parcel in silver foil from the pocket of her dressing gown. “I bake my own mince pies. Here’s one for you, and one for your friend,” she said, and she thrust it towards him. Bodie took it from her, suddenly lost for words.

“I’m sorry about earlier, and calling the police on you. I’m a suspicious old bird, y’see,” she said, and she smiled, the twinkling smile of a beloved kind granny. “And it’s Christmas.”

Bodie looked down at the silver parcel, and was astonished to feel the slight prickle of tears behind his eyelids. “Thanks… thanks Mrs King,” he said, and looked up at her, She was already stumping back down the path in her Wellingtons, and Bodie leaned further out of the window. “And happy Christmas!” he called, watching as she raised an arm in the air in acknowledgement.

The two policemen came back, the younger one decidedly green around the gills at having seen his first dead body, and Bodie switched to the front passenger seat. The bearded policeman said he would take him straight to the hospital, and he glanced curiously at the silver-foiled package in Bodie’s lap, but Bodie closed his eyes, grateful for the rest and soothed in the knowledge that Doyle was ahead of him at the hospital.

o0o

Bodie had been given the run of a shower room, clean clothes, been checked out by a doctor, and was now sitting outside a private room, waiting to see Doyle. He’d insisted on seeing Doyle, even though he had been given his own private room on the same corridor, and the doctor had been urging him to get some rest. Besides, Bodie knew Cowley would be along at some point; time waits for no man, especially not the little Scotsman. Murphy was stood back down (and had moaned ‘I’m still due in Boxing Day, how is that three days leave?’), before hitching a ride home with the returning helicopter, who said they’d drop him off on the way back to base, Murphy’s parents having the type of garden that could comfortably accommodate helicopters (and half of Cambridgeshire).

The doctor came out of Doyle’s room, and smiled at Bodie. “He’s all yours,” he said cheerfully, and went on his way. Bodie hid his grin as he entered the room. Doyle was lying down, pale against the white pillow, but there was a smile lurking on his lips and in his eyes. “All yours,” he repeated, making the two words sound very suggestive indeed.

Bodie grinned wider, and hooked a chair with his foot, bringing it closer so he could sit next to Doyle, and then he paused. The sound of a song was floating down the corridor from the near-by nurses’ station.

“Oh not that,” Doyle said with a groan.

“Bugger that,” said Bodie, and he went to the door.

It'll be lonely this Christmas
Without you to hold
It'll be lonely this Christmas
Lonely and cold

“Excuse me? Ladies?” Bodie said charmingly, leaning his head around the door.

One of the nurses looked up, smiling at the important young man who had caused so much excitement, with his friend landing by helicopter. “Yes?”

“Could you turn the sound down on this one? Me and my friend have had quite enough of mud this year, thank you,” he said, and he winked, before going back inside the room and closing the door.

The End

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