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byslantedlightPart Three! Here be Part Three! Not... finished yet, I'm afraid. Okay, not actually down to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dollidaydream's picture yet (neeeearly), but... more. Promised, and delivered. *g* More tomorrow, I hope.
Crossed
by Slantedlight
"Hot cross buns... Hot cross buns..." The song came floating up to them yet again, on eternal replay it seemed, as they sat on eyeballs in the sticky little bedsit, barely a cup of tea left between them, never mind anything as fresh as a hot cross bun. Bodie frowned towards the window, caught Doyle's eye, and frowned at him as well, for good measure.
"Give them to your daughters, give them to your sons..."
"I wish someone would," Doyle said, "I'm starving. Where the hell have those two got to, anyway?"
"One a penny, two a penny..."
Bodie didn't bother replying; it was Mattheson and King due, and he remembered vividly the last time he'd taken over from them in the buggyboo - three hours late, thanks to the glories of... whatever her name was.
"Hot cross buns."
Blessed silence.
Doyle stood abruptly, so that the kitchen chair he'd been gracing tipped backwards with the force of his movement, teetered for a moment and then fell again to the floor. He glanced cursorily through the binoculars - still no one moving anywhere in the vicinity of the lock-up garages, so Bodie didn't know why he bothered - turned and kicked at the wall of the bedsit, hands on hips, face grim. "When I get my hands on them..."
"Give it a rest, Doyle, they'll come when they come. Cowley's probably got them..."
"Hot cross buns, hot cross buns..."
"On the other hand," he interrupted himself, "You can shoot that kid whenever you like." He got up himself, stepped closer to the window to watch the gradually dimming day, felt Doyle move into place behind him, one shoulder tucked against his own, a warmth all down his side. He felt every breath Doyle took, every beat of his heart, every pulse of his blood, and he didn't mind at all that their relief was overdue.
"Give them to your daughters, give them to your sons, one a penny, two a penny..."
It was a young lad, thirteen, maybe fourteen years old, and he sounded a bit touched, if you asked Bodie. What kid that age went around singing nursery rhymes as he dug over a potato patch? What kid that age was digging in a garden at this time of night to start with? He should be out playing football with his mates in the lengthening evening, or… His imagination failed. He’d been busy with all sorts of things when he was that age, but they weren’t the sort of things an ordinary kid should be doing either.
"Hot cross buns... Hot cross buns, hot cross buns..."
"Fuckin' 'ell!" Doyle exploded behind him, letting his head fall forward so that it rested briefly on Bodie's shoulder before rising again, no doubt with gritted teeth.
"Hot cross Doyle..." Bodie thought - except that he said it out loud. He winced, waited for the roar in his ear, or the fist between his shoulder blades. Instead there was a huff of breath down his neck suddenly, and he turned his head just enough to see that Doyle was grinning, and looking slightly wry with it.
"You said yourself he should be shot... Look, I'm gonna call base, see if they can track down our relief. It's been an hour - I was gonna call Sally an' tonight an' all..."
"Ah, give 'em a break, Ray - we've been late to changeover ourselves." There was a kind of peace here in the bedsit, just the two of them, despite the kid outside - if they left then they'd go their separate ways, and he didn't want that, he realised, he didn't want that tonight at all. "Let's have another cuppa."
A car door slammed somewhere outside, and they both turned their heads sharply to the right, along the narrow back lane away from the row of lock-ups that faced them to the garages that backed onto the allotments this side. It was a blind spot from their vantage point, but there was a decent line of view between the two sets of buildings, a long gap over a low wooden fence topped by criss-crossed wire, and nowhere else for visitors to go. If McClintock was headed in their direction, and didn’t park outside the lock-ups, the only way she could get to them was along the lane, past that gap.
Nothing… nothing… there - long blonde hair, a denim jacket with the collar turned up, and an empty duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
Doyle was at the binoculars before she was more than a pace into the open.
“Is it her?”
“She’s looking the other way…”
Two steps… three steps… The woman turned her head.
“Come on, Ray!”
“It’s her - we’re on.”
“Bloody Mattheson and King…”
Doyle shot him a grin, momentarily distracted. “You’ve changed your tune.”
“Yeah well - I had better things happening tonight,” he said.
Doyle’s grin faded as he stared at Bodie, no doubt putting two and two together. Bodie’d been perfectly happy to stay put a minute ago. “I thought we weren’t going to do that. You…”
“Hot cross buns, hot cross buns…”
“No time to chat,” Bodie interrupted brightly. Bloody McClintock. “Things to do, terrorists to disappoint.”
That distracted him. “What are we gonna do about the kid?” Doyle asked. “If she comes out shooting…”
Bodie shook his head, sure of that at least. “She won’t. Look at the size of that bag - she’s not packing handguns in that.”
McClintock was at her lock-up now, fighting with the key. She’d been inside eighteen months.
Doyle shook his head. “Nothing to say she’s not got something on her now. I don’t like it…”
And if Doyle didn’t like it, then Bodie wouldn’t put it past him to be right. Bloody kid.
“Give them to your daught-”
“Fuck.” They were too late. McClintock had turned around, was calling to the boy, and he stared over at her, listening, then dug his spade hard into the ground and began walking in her direction.
“Change of plan,” Doyle said. “We follow her.”
“Cowley wanted her now…” Bodie began automatically, even as he weighed up the pros and cons for himself. They’d track her back to where ever she was taking her stash - and they knew it was guns, because they knew that was all she kept in there, having found it and broken into it a bare three months after McClintock started her stretch inside. The idea had been simply to get her off the street - they already knew her contacts, who she’d be giving the guns to, they didn’t need them tonight.
“Cowley doesn’t want a dead civilian.”
“So you get rid of him, and I’ll pick her up down the other end.”
“It’s too risky.”
It was, and it wasn’t, but when Ray had one of his moods on it took more arguing than Bodie could be bothered with. He shrugged, resigned agreement. Maybe at least they’d get some action tonight. “Call it in then,” he said. “If her nest gets hot it’d be nice to have some back-up, don’t you think?”
Doyle pulled out his R/T, and Bodie listened to him report their situation to base, calm and concise and firm as ever. Julia would relay it to Cowley - this hadn’t been a top priority op, they’d barely expected McClintock to show so soon after getting out - and maybe all the woman would do was go home for the night, tuck her Kalashnikovs under the bed, and they’d take her there instead.
The boy was helping her with the garage door which was proving recalcitrant - shame they hadn’t kept the lock oiled for her - and laughing at something she said. She’d always been a charmer, dear old Sally, that was one reason Cowley wanted her firmly out of the way again.
“Come on then - if we’re not nabbing her now we’d better get down there.” Bodie tapped Doyle on the shoulder with his knuckle to get him moving, and Doyle turned obediently for the door, clattered downstairs ahead of him, and then out the front. They split up at the end of the street, Bodie heading off to get the Capri, Doyle leaning negligently against the wall at the end of the back lane, where McClintock would have to pass him in her vehicle.
The car was sun-warmed when Bodie slid into the seat, and she started with a confident roar. It didn’t take long after that - he was parked close enough that he saw Doyle’s casual signal when McClintock began heading out, watched him cross the mouth of the lane and stroll casually up the street towards the Capri. Bare seconds later McClintock’s Cortina appeared, turned left into the quiet street, and began heading off. He pulled away from the curb, paused only to let Doyle in, and they followed smoothly after.
“Heading for town,” Doyle observed, settling comfortably back and lifting a foot to rest on the dashboard.
“That’s not the address we’ve got for her, is it?”
“Nah - out Finchley way.” Doyle pulled out his R/T, called their direction to base, and then dropped his hands to his lap, tapping the R/T against his thigh. Bodie would have sworn it was thoughtful tapping.
Don’t-do-it-don’t-do-it-don’t-say-it…
“You said one night was one night.”
Damn.
“So I did,” he managed, in the vague hope that it might be damping enough.
“You said we work together, you didn’t need to spend any more time than that…”
“Doyle we’re on a job,” he protested. “Catch the bad guys first, talk later, right?”
Could have kicked himself, because he’d offered later.
“Later, then,” Doyle said, and that was all, but it was enough. Christ, it would be so much easier if Doyle could just let things happen, but he had to bloody worry at them…
The sun was setting now, the sky ahead of them turning from pale blue to peach, and cars were putting their headlights on. Bodie left theirs off and prayed they wouldn’t pass a bored traffic cop. Rush hour was gone, but there were enough cars still on the roads that he had to be nippy about traffic lights and right turns, quite apart from wanting the excuse of needing to concentrate, and they drove in silence.
“Where the hell’s she off to?” Doyle finally wondered out loud, as they turned down Fleet Street itself, and St Pauls hove into view in the distance. Eventually McClintock began to indicate, slowed down, and turned onto a side street - then indicated again and pulled in to park.
Doyle began to shake his head. “Tell me she’s not…”
“She certainly is,” Bodie said, pulling into a space three cars ahead of her, and glancing at his side mirror while Doyle adjusted the rear view. “She’s getting out…”
“Come on!” Doyle had his door open before Bodie could say anything else, and he stepped into the cold evening air, stood gawping up and around him for a moment, for all the world like a late night tourist. Doyle was looking keen enough for both of them, and it wouldn’t do to scare her now…
Head held high and confident, bag slung over her shoulder, McClintock strode back to the main road, easy to follow, and enough people around to either give good cover or promise a blood bath if things went wrong.
“Shit!”
“Now Raymond, that’s no way to talk in these hallowed streets,” he said, high-handed as he could, as McClintock turned into not just any old building, but the Black Lubyanka itself, right through the front doors.
“Someone’s expecting her…”
“Well,” he reached up to loosen his holster. “Lucky we remembered our own invitations.”
Doyle pulled out his R/T again as they stretched into a run for the last few steps, and Bodie ducked ahead of him into the revolving doors, hand on his Inglis, ready for anything.
There was no McClintock, but there was a surprised looking security guard behind the huge desk, so Bodie pulled out his ID first and then his gun. “Where’d that woman go?”
The bloke clearly didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified - he was old enough, hair and face both grizzled, that he’d probably presumed his days of excitement were long past. “The printing press, but…”
“Who’s she meeting?”
“I can’t…”
“See this?” Doyle held his own ID out, pushing it bare inches from the man’s face. “This says you can. That woman’s dangerous, we want her, now who’s she meeting?”
“Mr Downing at the… Look, I can take you down the back way…”
“That’s the spirit,” Bodie clapped him on the back as he emerged into the foyer. “And we’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy.”
The man took them through a back door and down a narrow stairway. The air thickened as they descended, and there was a buzz and rush and clattering that got louder and louder.
“Near the end of the run!” the guard shouted at them when they got to a dull painted door. “You’ll hear the stop any minute now. Mr Downing won’t be doing business down here before then.”
That was debatable, Bodie knew. It didn’t take words to exchange a bag of guns for a bag of cash. He opened his own mouth to say so - to shout so, to make himself heard - but there was the sudden and unmistakeable sound of a bullet ricocheting from the metal banister behind them, and then he was pushing the guard through the door into safety, and flattening himself against the wall, away from McClintock’s line of sight above.
Doyle - shit, Doyle! - was already halfway up the stairs after her, the familiar stutter of his own Inglis belting out. Behind the closed door, the printing press rushed on. Bodie used the cover of Doyle’s gunfire to launch himself upstairs, two at a time, and flat against the wall to give Doyle covering fire - as straight up the stairwell as he could manage, and he just hoped he wasn’t going to hit the mad bastard.
He only caught sight of the third floor door closing as he flew past it, reversing direction abruptly and pulling himself through, as sure as he could be that Doyle had already taken the danger out of entry. Sure enough all was still. He was at the end of a long carpeted corridor, the sounds and smells of the printing press far behind him, everything dim evening light, offices closed for the night.
A door opened suddenly to his left, a figure backing out, he pulled up his gun, aimed, and…
A cleaner - a small, round, black woman with a mop in one hand, her mouth making a horrified oh, eyes wide, about to scream... Bodie held his hands up placatingly. “Police,” he said, because it was quickest. “Has anyone come past you?”
“No man, only you. There’s only me…”
He turned and ran back to stairwell, wrenching open the door just in time to see Doyle tumbling backwards and down, over once, over twice, until he slammed to a stop on the landing in front of Bodie, and lay there, splayed out like a crucifixion, face smeared with blood. Unmoving.
Bodie’s heart stumbled.
Another shot pinged off the banister, and he threw himself over Doyle’s body without thinking, supporting his weight on his elbows, head tucked under his hands, gun briefly useless. He stayed still for a moment, hearing scrambling higher on the staircase, not caring now that McClintock was getting away, just needing time to deal with Ray, to wake him up, to get him to a hospital…
Doyle groaned beneath him.
“Ray?” Bodie sat up cautiously, Inglis at the ready, but all was quiet. “Are you alright?”
Doyle scrunched his face, lifting a hand weakly to the side of his head, managing to wince even more when it came away bloody. “D’you get her?”
“With your great carcass falling on me from a height - not a chance.”
Doyle rolled halfway over, pushing himself up on one hand, and then holding the other - blood smeared now - out to Bodie.
“Are you sure you’re-” Bodie began, broke off at Doyle’s scowl.
“What’s a few stairs between friends?”
“When they’re between me and your mate, quite a bit actually.” Bodie reached out and grasped Doyle’s hand, pulling him up slowly rather than with his usual joyous yank. Doyle wavered on his feet, and Bodie grabbed him at the waist, not letting himself draw him closer, and after a moment Doyle stood firm enough.
“Got a hanky?”
Bodie pulled one from his jacket pocket, clean but for a swipe of gun oil, and passed it over. “Let’s get you to the doc and seen to then,” he suggested. “I’ve only got the one and we’ll be swimming in it if your not careful.” Doyle had gone pale under the blood, and Bodie could see he was shaking slightly. Shock of the fall after the adrenaline of the chase, but on top of a head wound…
“Nah.” Doyle took the hanky away from his head, peered at it for a moment, then unfolded it to a clean square and started smearing the blood further across his face. "It'll be alright..."
Bodie wrinkled a nose at him, took him firmly by the shoulder, tucked his gun into his holster, and pulled open the door behind them. “Come on, Carrie - this way.” There’d been a nice, neat notice on one of the doors in the carpeted corridor - Ladies. That would do.
The floor still shone in places from what had clearly been a good mopping, and Bodie skirted the wet patches carefully, until he had Doyle propped safely against the sink, then he ducked into a stall to liberate a roll of toilet paper.
“Christ, that’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it…” Doyle had turned around, was examining himself ruefully in the mirror.
“You sure you’re alright?” He brushed away Doyle’s attempt to take the bog roll from him, unravelled a serious length and ran it under the hot tap, cupped Doyle’s cheek to hold him still, and squinted as he pushed aside curls of hair. “You could have anything under here, couldn’t you - split your skull open an’ we’d never notice.” Too much blood, there was too much blood… But Doyle was up and walking, and even talking.
“Heads always bleed a lot, don’t they. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to fall downstairs - Macklin’ll have your guts for garters.”
“You weren’t doing a lot of controlled rolling when I saw you coming down.” Bodie spared a sideways glance away from his job, lifted an eyebrow, then carried on patting away the blood.
“Perfect technique, that was,” Doyle said, but Bodie could feel him shaking still, a fine trembling, but a trembling.
Without thinking about it, Bodie pulled him close suddenly, dropped his lips to Doyle’s forehead and kissed him, didn’t move away again. He felt Doyle take a deep breath, half-expected him to retreat, but he stayed where he was, and Bodie let his arm curve around Doyle’s back, his hand brush tiny strokes over his forearm, comforting himself as much as Doyle.
“How’d she get the drop on you, anyway?” he asked at last, without letting go.
Doyle tipped his head slightly, so that he could speak, lifted his arms and draped them loosely around Bodie’s waist, but stayed close. “She didn’t. Some bugger opened the door to the stairs just as I was getting there - caught the side of me head, and next thing I knew I was mid-air. Hey - my shooter’s still out there somewhere.” Now he did pull away, straightening off the edge of the sink, and when Bodie looked at him his face was clean and had some colour back - and worried. “Cowley’ll bloody kill me if some civilian gets hold of it.”
“Doyle…”
Doyle gave him a measuring glance. “Bodie.”
“Look I know I said…”
“Who’s in dere?”
Doyle reached for a gun he didn’t have, and Bodie rolled his eyes.
It was the small round black woman, hands encased now in rubber gloves, a spray can of Pledge tucked into her apron pocket, and she was standing in the open doorway.
“It’s alright, love,” he said. “Police, remember?”
“You aint no police - police don’t bleed all over my clean basins.”
“Oh, I can assure you, we do,” Bodie said, straightening and reaching for his ID, pulling out his best manners at the same time. She didn’t look much like blue eyes and long eyelashes would work on her. “But if you’re worried you can call down to your security man - he’ll vouch for us.”
“Bert?” She sniffed, lifted her hands to her ample hips. “Dat no-good couldn’t vouch for he own mudda. He let all the riff-raff in. I tell Mr Downing, but he don’t care!” She looked them up and down. “You could be riff-raff!”
Bodie waved his ID gently in the air before her, and she leaned forward and squinted at it. “Huh. You arrestin’ him?” She gestured at Doyle.
Doyle shot him a speaking glance, reached for his own ID, and held it out.
“Dat’s alrigh’ den. I suppose dis be yours?” She reached into her apron, past the Pledge, and pulled out Doyle’s Inglis Hi-Power.
Doyle held his hands up straight away, placating, reaching carefully out towards her. “Thank you,” he said. “I was just coming to get that.”
“Well you shouldn’t leave it lyin’ aroun’ - anyone could get hold of dat.”
Bodie could feel laughter welling, pressed his lips together and ducked his head down to gain some semblance of control. The look on Doyle’s face…
Doyle ducked his own head down suddenly, and cleared his throat, though when he looked up again he seemed serious enough. “Did you say your boss was Mr Downing?”
“He de night manager,” she confirmed. “But he won’t listen about dat Bert…”
“No - well, perhaps we could have a word with him,” Doyle said. “Do you know where he’ll be right now?”
“In his office.” She sniffed. “He always in his office, the whole night long. Come on.”
She turned and opened the door, and Bodie let his hand settle in the middle of Doyle’s back, pushing him gently out in her wake.
dollidaydream's picture yet (neeeearly), but... more. Promised, and delivered. *g* More tomorrow, I hope.Crossed
by Slantedlight
"Hot cross buns... Hot cross buns..." The song came floating up to them yet again, on eternal replay it seemed, as they sat on eyeballs in the sticky little bedsit, barely a cup of tea left between them, never mind anything as fresh as a hot cross bun. Bodie frowned towards the window, caught Doyle's eye, and frowned at him as well, for good measure.
"Give them to your daughters, give them to your sons..."
"I wish someone would," Doyle said, "I'm starving. Where the hell have those two got to, anyway?"
"One a penny, two a penny..."
Bodie didn't bother replying; it was Mattheson and King due, and he remembered vividly the last time he'd taken over from them in the buggyboo - three hours late, thanks to the glories of... whatever her name was.
"Hot cross buns."
Blessed silence.
Doyle stood abruptly, so that the kitchen chair he'd been gracing tipped backwards with the force of his movement, teetered for a moment and then fell again to the floor. He glanced cursorily through the binoculars - still no one moving anywhere in the vicinity of the lock-up garages, so Bodie didn't know why he bothered - turned and kicked at the wall of the bedsit, hands on hips, face grim. "When I get my hands on them..."
"Give it a rest, Doyle, they'll come when they come. Cowley's probably got them..."
"Hot cross buns, hot cross buns..."
"On the other hand," he interrupted himself, "You can shoot that kid whenever you like." He got up himself, stepped closer to the window to watch the gradually dimming day, felt Doyle move into place behind him, one shoulder tucked against his own, a warmth all down his side. He felt every breath Doyle took, every beat of his heart, every pulse of his blood, and he didn't mind at all that their relief was overdue.
"Give them to your daughters, give them to your sons, one a penny, two a penny..."
It was a young lad, thirteen, maybe fourteen years old, and he sounded a bit touched, if you asked Bodie. What kid that age went around singing nursery rhymes as he dug over a potato patch? What kid that age was digging in a garden at this time of night to start with? He should be out playing football with his mates in the lengthening evening, or… His imagination failed. He’d been busy with all sorts of things when he was that age, but they weren’t the sort of things an ordinary kid should be doing either.
"Hot cross buns... Hot cross buns, hot cross buns..."
"Fuckin' 'ell!" Doyle exploded behind him, letting his head fall forward so that it rested briefly on Bodie's shoulder before rising again, no doubt with gritted teeth.
"Hot cross Doyle..." Bodie thought - except that he said it out loud. He winced, waited for the roar in his ear, or the fist between his shoulder blades. Instead there was a huff of breath down his neck suddenly, and he turned his head just enough to see that Doyle was grinning, and looking slightly wry with it.
"You said yourself he should be shot... Look, I'm gonna call base, see if they can track down our relief. It's been an hour - I was gonna call Sally an' tonight an' all..."
"Ah, give 'em a break, Ray - we've been late to changeover ourselves." There was a kind of peace here in the bedsit, just the two of them, despite the kid outside - if they left then they'd go their separate ways, and he didn't want that, he realised, he didn't want that tonight at all. "Let's have another cuppa."
A car door slammed somewhere outside, and they both turned their heads sharply to the right, along the narrow back lane away from the row of lock-ups that faced them to the garages that backed onto the allotments this side. It was a blind spot from their vantage point, but there was a decent line of view between the two sets of buildings, a long gap over a low wooden fence topped by criss-crossed wire, and nowhere else for visitors to go. If McClintock was headed in their direction, and didn’t park outside the lock-ups, the only way she could get to them was along the lane, past that gap.
Nothing… nothing… there - long blonde hair, a denim jacket with the collar turned up, and an empty duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
Doyle was at the binoculars before she was more than a pace into the open.
“Is it her?”
“She’s looking the other way…”
Two steps… three steps… The woman turned her head.
“Come on, Ray!”
“It’s her - we’re on.”
“Bloody Mattheson and King…”
Doyle shot him a grin, momentarily distracted. “You’ve changed your tune.”
“Yeah well - I had better things happening tonight,” he said.
Doyle’s grin faded as he stared at Bodie, no doubt putting two and two together. Bodie’d been perfectly happy to stay put a minute ago. “I thought we weren’t going to do that. You…”
“Hot cross buns, hot cross buns…”
“No time to chat,” Bodie interrupted brightly. Bloody McClintock. “Things to do, terrorists to disappoint.”
That distracted him. “What are we gonna do about the kid?” Doyle asked. “If she comes out shooting…”
Bodie shook his head, sure of that at least. “She won’t. Look at the size of that bag - she’s not packing handguns in that.”
McClintock was at her lock-up now, fighting with the key. She’d been inside eighteen months.
Doyle shook his head. “Nothing to say she’s not got something on her now. I don’t like it…”
And if Doyle didn’t like it, then Bodie wouldn’t put it past him to be right. Bloody kid.
“Give them to your daught-”
“Fuck.” They were too late. McClintock had turned around, was calling to the boy, and he stared over at her, listening, then dug his spade hard into the ground and began walking in her direction.
“Change of plan,” Doyle said. “We follow her.”
“Cowley wanted her now…” Bodie began automatically, even as he weighed up the pros and cons for himself. They’d track her back to where ever she was taking her stash - and they knew it was guns, because they knew that was all she kept in there, having found it and broken into it a bare three months after McClintock started her stretch inside. The idea had been simply to get her off the street - they already knew her contacts, who she’d be giving the guns to, they didn’t need them tonight.
“Cowley doesn’t want a dead civilian.”
“So you get rid of him, and I’ll pick her up down the other end.”
“It’s too risky.”
It was, and it wasn’t, but when Ray had one of his moods on it took more arguing than Bodie could be bothered with. He shrugged, resigned agreement. Maybe at least they’d get some action tonight. “Call it in then,” he said. “If her nest gets hot it’d be nice to have some back-up, don’t you think?”
Doyle pulled out his R/T, and Bodie listened to him report their situation to base, calm and concise and firm as ever. Julia would relay it to Cowley - this hadn’t been a top priority op, they’d barely expected McClintock to show so soon after getting out - and maybe all the woman would do was go home for the night, tuck her Kalashnikovs under the bed, and they’d take her there instead.
The boy was helping her with the garage door which was proving recalcitrant - shame they hadn’t kept the lock oiled for her - and laughing at something she said. She’d always been a charmer, dear old Sally, that was one reason Cowley wanted her firmly out of the way again.
“Come on then - if we’re not nabbing her now we’d better get down there.” Bodie tapped Doyle on the shoulder with his knuckle to get him moving, and Doyle turned obediently for the door, clattered downstairs ahead of him, and then out the front. They split up at the end of the street, Bodie heading off to get the Capri, Doyle leaning negligently against the wall at the end of the back lane, where McClintock would have to pass him in her vehicle.
The car was sun-warmed when Bodie slid into the seat, and she started with a confident roar. It didn’t take long after that - he was parked close enough that he saw Doyle’s casual signal when McClintock began heading out, watched him cross the mouth of the lane and stroll casually up the street towards the Capri. Bare seconds later McClintock’s Cortina appeared, turned left into the quiet street, and began heading off. He pulled away from the curb, paused only to let Doyle in, and they followed smoothly after.
“Heading for town,” Doyle observed, settling comfortably back and lifting a foot to rest on the dashboard.
“That’s not the address we’ve got for her, is it?”
“Nah - out Finchley way.” Doyle pulled out his R/T, called their direction to base, and then dropped his hands to his lap, tapping the R/T against his thigh. Bodie would have sworn it was thoughtful tapping.
Don’t-do-it-don’t-do-it-don’t-say-it…
“You said one night was one night.”
Damn.
“So I did,” he managed, in the vague hope that it might be damping enough.
“You said we work together, you didn’t need to spend any more time than that…”
“Doyle we’re on a job,” he protested. “Catch the bad guys first, talk later, right?”
Could have kicked himself, because he’d offered later.
“Later, then,” Doyle said, and that was all, but it was enough. Christ, it would be so much easier if Doyle could just let things happen, but he had to bloody worry at them…
The sun was setting now, the sky ahead of them turning from pale blue to peach, and cars were putting their headlights on. Bodie left theirs off and prayed they wouldn’t pass a bored traffic cop. Rush hour was gone, but there were enough cars still on the roads that he had to be nippy about traffic lights and right turns, quite apart from wanting the excuse of needing to concentrate, and they drove in silence.
“Where the hell’s she off to?” Doyle finally wondered out loud, as they turned down Fleet Street itself, and St Pauls hove into view in the distance. Eventually McClintock began to indicate, slowed down, and turned onto a side street - then indicated again and pulled in to park.
Doyle began to shake his head. “Tell me she’s not…”
“She certainly is,” Bodie said, pulling into a space three cars ahead of her, and glancing at his side mirror while Doyle adjusted the rear view. “She’s getting out…”
“Come on!” Doyle had his door open before Bodie could say anything else, and he stepped into the cold evening air, stood gawping up and around him for a moment, for all the world like a late night tourist. Doyle was looking keen enough for both of them, and it wouldn’t do to scare her now…
Head held high and confident, bag slung over her shoulder, McClintock strode back to the main road, easy to follow, and enough people around to either give good cover or promise a blood bath if things went wrong.
“Shit!”
“Now Raymond, that’s no way to talk in these hallowed streets,” he said, high-handed as he could, as McClintock turned into not just any old building, but the Black Lubyanka itself, right through the front doors.
“Someone’s expecting her…”
“Well,” he reached up to loosen his holster. “Lucky we remembered our own invitations.”
Doyle pulled out his R/T again as they stretched into a run for the last few steps, and Bodie ducked ahead of him into the revolving doors, hand on his Inglis, ready for anything.
There was no McClintock, but there was a surprised looking security guard behind the huge desk, so Bodie pulled out his ID first and then his gun. “Where’d that woman go?”
The bloke clearly didn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified - he was old enough, hair and face both grizzled, that he’d probably presumed his days of excitement were long past. “The printing press, but…”
“Who’s she meeting?”
“I can’t…”
“See this?” Doyle held his own ID out, pushing it bare inches from the man’s face. “This says you can. That woman’s dangerous, we want her, now who’s she meeting?”
“Mr Downing at the… Look, I can take you down the back way…”
“That’s the spirit,” Bodie clapped him on the back as he emerged into the foyer. “And we’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy.”
The man took them through a back door and down a narrow stairway. The air thickened as they descended, and there was a buzz and rush and clattering that got louder and louder.
“Near the end of the run!” the guard shouted at them when they got to a dull painted door. “You’ll hear the stop any minute now. Mr Downing won’t be doing business down here before then.”
That was debatable, Bodie knew. It didn’t take words to exchange a bag of guns for a bag of cash. He opened his own mouth to say so - to shout so, to make himself heard - but there was the sudden and unmistakeable sound of a bullet ricocheting from the metal banister behind them, and then he was pushing the guard through the door into safety, and flattening himself against the wall, away from McClintock’s line of sight above.
Doyle - shit, Doyle! - was already halfway up the stairs after her, the familiar stutter of his own Inglis belting out. Behind the closed door, the printing press rushed on. Bodie used the cover of Doyle’s gunfire to launch himself upstairs, two at a time, and flat against the wall to give Doyle covering fire - as straight up the stairwell as he could manage, and he just hoped he wasn’t going to hit the mad bastard.
He only caught sight of the third floor door closing as he flew past it, reversing direction abruptly and pulling himself through, as sure as he could be that Doyle had already taken the danger out of entry. Sure enough all was still. He was at the end of a long carpeted corridor, the sounds and smells of the printing press far behind him, everything dim evening light, offices closed for the night.
A door opened suddenly to his left, a figure backing out, he pulled up his gun, aimed, and…
A cleaner - a small, round, black woman with a mop in one hand, her mouth making a horrified oh, eyes wide, about to scream... Bodie held his hands up placatingly. “Police,” he said, because it was quickest. “Has anyone come past you?”
“No man, only you. There’s only me…”
He turned and ran back to stairwell, wrenching open the door just in time to see Doyle tumbling backwards and down, over once, over twice, until he slammed to a stop on the landing in front of Bodie, and lay there, splayed out like a crucifixion, face smeared with blood. Unmoving.
Bodie’s heart stumbled.
Another shot pinged off the banister, and he threw himself over Doyle’s body without thinking, supporting his weight on his elbows, head tucked under his hands, gun briefly useless. He stayed still for a moment, hearing scrambling higher on the staircase, not caring now that McClintock was getting away, just needing time to deal with Ray, to wake him up, to get him to a hospital…
Doyle groaned beneath him.
“Ray?” Bodie sat up cautiously, Inglis at the ready, but all was quiet. “Are you alright?”
Doyle scrunched his face, lifting a hand weakly to the side of his head, managing to wince even more when it came away bloody. “D’you get her?”
“With your great carcass falling on me from a height - not a chance.”
Doyle rolled halfway over, pushing himself up on one hand, and then holding the other - blood smeared now - out to Bodie.
“Are you sure you’re-” Bodie began, broke off at Doyle’s scowl.
“What’s a few stairs between friends?”
“When they’re between me and your mate, quite a bit actually.” Bodie reached out and grasped Doyle’s hand, pulling him up slowly rather than with his usual joyous yank. Doyle wavered on his feet, and Bodie grabbed him at the waist, not letting himself draw him closer, and after a moment Doyle stood firm enough.
“Got a hanky?”
Bodie pulled one from his jacket pocket, clean but for a swipe of gun oil, and passed it over. “Let’s get you to the doc and seen to then,” he suggested. “I’ve only got the one and we’ll be swimming in it if your not careful.” Doyle had gone pale under the blood, and Bodie could see he was shaking slightly. Shock of the fall after the adrenaline of the chase, but on top of a head wound…
“Nah.” Doyle took the hanky away from his head, peered at it for a moment, then unfolded it to a clean square and started smearing the blood further across his face. "It'll be alright..."
Bodie wrinkled a nose at him, took him firmly by the shoulder, tucked his gun into his holster, and pulled open the door behind them. “Come on, Carrie - this way.” There’d been a nice, neat notice on one of the doors in the carpeted corridor - Ladies. That would do.
The floor still shone in places from what had clearly been a good mopping, and Bodie skirted the wet patches carefully, until he had Doyle propped safely against the sink, then he ducked into a stall to liberate a roll of toilet paper.
“Christ, that’s a bit dramatic, isn’t it…” Doyle had turned around, was examining himself ruefully in the mirror.
“You sure you’re alright?” He brushed away Doyle’s attempt to take the bog roll from him, unravelled a serious length and ran it under the hot tap, cupped Doyle’s cheek to hold him still, and squinted as he pushed aside curls of hair. “You could have anything under here, couldn’t you - split your skull open an’ we’d never notice.” Too much blood, there was too much blood… But Doyle was up and walking, and even talking.
“Heads always bleed a lot, don’t they. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to fall downstairs - Macklin’ll have your guts for garters.”
“You weren’t doing a lot of controlled rolling when I saw you coming down.” Bodie spared a sideways glance away from his job, lifted an eyebrow, then carried on patting away the blood.
“Perfect technique, that was,” Doyle said, but Bodie could feel him shaking still, a fine trembling, but a trembling.
Without thinking about it, Bodie pulled him close suddenly, dropped his lips to Doyle’s forehead and kissed him, didn’t move away again. He felt Doyle take a deep breath, half-expected him to retreat, but he stayed where he was, and Bodie let his arm curve around Doyle’s back, his hand brush tiny strokes over his forearm, comforting himself as much as Doyle.
“How’d she get the drop on you, anyway?” he asked at last, without letting go.
Doyle tipped his head slightly, so that he could speak, lifted his arms and draped them loosely around Bodie’s waist, but stayed close. “She didn’t. Some bugger opened the door to the stairs just as I was getting there - caught the side of me head, and next thing I knew I was mid-air. Hey - my shooter’s still out there somewhere.” Now he did pull away, straightening off the edge of the sink, and when Bodie looked at him his face was clean and had some colour back - and worried. “Cowley’ll bloody kill me if some civilian gets hold of it.”
“Doyle…”
Doyle gave him a measuring glance. “Bodie.”
“Look I know I said…”
“Who’s in dere?”
Doyle reached for a gun he didn’t have, and Bodie rolled his eyes.
It was the small round black woman, hands encased now in rubber gloves, a spray can of Pledge tucked into her apron pocket, and she was standing in the open doorway.
“It’s alright, love,” he said. “Police, remember?”
“You aint no police - police don’t bleed all over my clean basins.”
“Oh, I can assure you, we do,” Bodie said, straightening and reaching for his ID, pulling out his best manners at the same time. She didn’t look much like blue eyes and long eyelashes would work on her. “But if you’re worried you can call down to your security man - he’ll vouch for us.”
“Bert?” She sniffed, lifted her hands to her ample hips. “Dat no-good couldn’t vouch for he own mudda. He let all the riff-raff in. I tell Mr Downing, but he don’t care!” She looked them up and down. “You could be riff-raff!”
Bodie waved his ID gently in the air before her, and she leaned forward and squinted at it. “Huh. You arrestin’ him?” She gestured at Doyle.
Doyle shot him a speaking glance, reached for his own ID, and held it out.
“Dat’s alrigh’ den. I suppose dis be yours?” She reached into her apron, past the Pledge, and pulled out Doyle’s Inglis Hi-Power.
Doyle held his hands up straight away, placating, reaching carefully out towards her. “Thank you,” he said. “I was just coming to get that.”
“Well you shouldn’t leave it lyin’ aroun’ - anyone could get hold of dat.”
Bodie could feel laughter welling, pressed his lips together and ducked his head down to gain some semblance of control. The look on Doyle’s face…
Doyle ducked his own head down suddenly, and cleared his throat, though when he looked up again he seemed serious enough. “Did you say your boss was Mr Downing?”
“He de night manager,” she confirmed. “But he won’t listen about dat Bert…”
“No - well, perhaps we could have a word with him,” Doyle said. “Do you know where he’ll be right now?”
“In his office.” She sniffed. “He always in his office, the whole night long. Come on.”
She turned and opened the door, and Bodie let his hand settle in the middle of Doyle’s back, pushing him gently out in her wake.
