Embedded Files
Spring-heeled Jack
WEDNESDAY
It had been a rotten day -- not bloody, not dangerous, not even particularly active, just dull and uncomfortable. Twelve hours in the unheated, unfurnished attic of 43 Minster View watching the house opposite. Twelve hours of staring down through a pair of binoculars while Jackson sat behind him on the sound recorders. Twelve hours with absolutely nothing happening and nothing to do except listen to that bastard sniffing – a prolonged, juicy, rattling sniff he had had to threaten physical violence to stifle.
After a day like that he had been looking forward to a hot bath, a hot meal and a couple of pints with Doyle. Instead he had been ordered back to HQ for a conference with Uncle George and he was not a happy operative.
The lift was out of order -- again -- and cursing tiredly he set off up the stairs. His back was aching from the tiny chair he'd found in the cellar, his feet still had not thawed out and he was starving. The sight of Turner on the landing in his shirt sleeves did nothing to improve his mood. Bloody heating gone mad again. Normally he hated it when the thermostat went haywire and HQ did its imitation of the Gobi Desert but, after an entire day freezing his bollocks off in the trackless wastes of Hoxton, the idea that everyone else had spent the day basking like lizards made him grind his teeth.
Turner raised a hand as they met, and they climbed the next flight together. After a day spent lolling around the office toasting himself, Turner was obviously feeling chatty. "Saw your partner earlier with Cowley," he said. "Looking very smart. Haircut, collar and tie, the full monte -- got a date at Buckingham Palace?"
That was a laugh. The only time they had been to the Palace, Doyle had gone in his jeans and a T-shirt. The Cow had been apoplectic, which was very probably why Doyle had done it. Bodie shook his head. "Funeral."
Turner looked mildly interested. "Family?"
Bodie stopped at the next landing, ridiculously glad of the rest. "Nah, he knew the copper in the Lambeth bombing. Cowley said he could go if he smartened himself up and represented CI5."
"Bet that hurt."
Bodie aimed a slap at the back of Turner's head, more on the general principle that he was the only person allowed to insult his partner than because he disagreed with the sentiment, and started on the last flight. The stairs seemed to go on for ever and the corridor at the top seemed longer. It was late, after ten, and the overhead fluorescent lights glared down on walls of the depressing shade Doyle had once christened "ministerial mucky brown".
He stopped at the coffee machine and cursed again. The `exact change only' light was on and he knew damn fine he had nothing like the right money. Ah to hell with it -- with any luck George would be handing round the scotch and, if Doyle was here, he could hunt him up after he'd seen the Cow, and they could go and grab a bite and a couple of pints somewhere warm.
He pulled himself up straighter and affected a jaunty swagger
to enter Betty's office, then leaned over her desk and leered at her winningly. "Doyle still in with the boss?"
Betty did not look up; despite what he had once boasted to Doyle, Betty had no more time for him than she had for any other agent. "Been and gone home," she said laconically.
"What?" So much for a late pint.
"Went in to see Mr Cowley about an hour ago and then went home." She pulled the sheets of paper from the typewriter with an emphatic ripping noise and began feeding in the next set. Her hands paused for a moment. "I don't think he was very well, he looked awful when he came out."
"Oh, he'll be all right -- you know what he's like. He's been to a funeral, he's probably worried about his mortality or something."
She looked up for the first time and shook her head. "No, I don't think so, 3.7...." She got no further. The door behind Bodie swung open and Cowley swept in, his hands full of files and hand-written notes. A staccato burst of orders settled any chance Betty had of leaving before midnight and Bodie followed him back into his office.
"Anything from the surveillance, 3.7?"
"Yeah -- there's two slates missing off the roof and the roses need deadheading. Other than that -- bugger all."
Cowley waved him towards a chair, and he sat down gratefully. "Turn your notes over to Reynolds. I've got another job for you." He reached into the desk drawer and pulled out an eight by ten black and white photograph. He tossed it over the desk. "Do you know him?" A stocky man in his forties, probably fit but running to fat now, steel-rimmed glasses, blond hair in a
ponytail, battle fatigues.
Bodie nodded and handed it back. "Yeah, I know him. Beckerman. I think his first name's Heinrich but everyone calls him The Professor. Specialises in battlefield electronics: communications, radar, computer guidance systems, that sort of thing. Likes to see himself as some sort of freedom fighter but really he's just a high-tech thug. If the money's right he'll go anywhere."
"We think he's coming to London."
Bodie shrugged. "If he is, he's in transit. There's nothing here for his kind. The IRA never goes much above a mortar or the occasional home-made rocket, and that's way too far down the food chain for the likes of The Professor."
Cowley ignored him. "I want him found. Ask around, you know where, and if you find him report back. I don't want him touched." He picked up the photograph and looked at it carefully, and Bodie had the sudden odd conviction that the Cow was avoiding his eye. "Take Jackson with you."
"Jackson!" The thought of another day with that bloody sniff made his flesh creep. Besides... "What's Doyle doing?"
"Doyle is on two weeks leave."
Bodie sat up straighter, instantly indignant. "Why?" The jammy bastard had just had a fortnight off, they both had; so how the hell had Doyle managed to wangle another one?
"No doubt if he wants you to know, he'll tell you." A typical Cowley answer that told you nothing, and left you no way in to ask any more questions.
Bodie regrouped hurriedly. "All right then, but why Jackson? I've had sandwiches with more brains than that little...." Cowley looked up and Bodie decided that discretion was the better part of valour. He retreated hastily before he got the full `when I want your opinion of an operative I'll ask for it' treatment.
He was still hankering after a pint so he drove home by way of Doyle's place. The lights were still on, and he sat in the car for a couple of minutes, debating whether or not to go on up. Wasn't really fair if Doyle was feeling off colour. Then the lights went out and made the decision for him. He could always call in tomorrow.
THURSDAY
Jackson was late. Although CI5 had no official `clocking on' time, both Doyle and Bodie liked an early start; Jackson was obviously one of those people who is non compos before ten. When he finally deigned to put in an appearance, in response to an irate blast over the r/t, he sat in the passenger seat, yawning and scratching himself; although at least he had the sense to keep the sniff under wraps.
The absence of the sniff was the only bright spot in a truly lousy day. It soon become obvious that Jackson had no idea of how to...well, conduct himself. As they trailed round some of London's nastier byways, dragging people out of their beds and asking them awkward questions they did not want to answer, Jackson stood behind him with all the menace of a boy in short trousers. It was not just that he was ridiculously young and looked younger, in some circumstances that might have helped. It was more that he did not seem to know how to react to the people they were hassling. He did not know how to adapt to the different people they met. The men they were talking to were all in (or on the fringes of) the mercenary recruitment business or the illegal/semi-legal weapons market, but that did not mean you could treat them all the same.
Cusack, for instance, had to be needled, kept off balance. Get him flustered or a little afraid and you could learn a lot, but you had to go about it the right way. What Bodie needed was Doyle's hovering menace, not a refugee from Tom Brown's Schooldays.
Martel, on the other hand, would probably have enjoyed Jackson's baby-faced looks if the fool had known enough to play up to him. Doyle had leaned back in the sunshine, and let Marty ogle him while maintaining just the right air of knowing disdain. Jackson went stony-faced and glared.
On top of all that the little bastard grunted. Bodie knew the boy was fit, he had to be, he'd been Macklin'd like the rest of them. So why the fucking hell did he have to grunt all the time? He grunted when he got out of the car, he grunted when he sat down at a table, he grunted when he climbed over walls or went up stairs and it was driving Bodie mad.
An entire day of this sort of useless activity resulted in zero information about Beckerman, a mildly useful titbit about weapons movements into Nigeria, and a skinned set of knuckles for Bodie when a toerag called Finlay did a runner out of a chipshop on the Whitechapel Road. They chased him into a back street (Jackson grunted when he ran), where they then proceeded to get into each other's way when Finlay had a sudden insane rush of courage, and tried to fight his way free.
An unproductive day, an irritating day and, if he were honest, a day when he had missed having Doyle around. At least you didn't have to watch your own back as well as your partner's when Doyle was about. If he'd wanted a career in childcare he'd have signed up as a bloody Norland nanny, not a CI5 agent.
Some time after eight he dropped the idiot boy off at HQ, heartlessly lumbering him with the job of reporting to Cowley, and set off to find Doyle. Time to find out what was up with his partner, and time to see if he could make Doyle feel guilty enough about leaving him with nobody but Darren-bloody-Jackson to watch his back, to come back to work.
There was no answer to the doorbell, but he had had his own key since that time Doyle had been fool enough to get himself shot, so he let himself in. He could always make himself a sandwich and wait. If Doyle came back with a girl, it would serve him right for skiving off work.
Doyle's flat was not just empty, it was cold and had the indefinable air of a place that has been abandoned, at least temporarily. He had a quick look round -- the fridge and cupboards had been cleared of perishables, the fruit bowl that had been overflowing two days ago was empty and the water heating was off. Obviously Doyle had gone away for a couple of days.
He locked up again and left, wondering why Doyle had said nothing about it. He shrugged mentally. Never mind, sort it all out at the weekend.
FRIDAY
Another useless day leading Darren-bloody-Jackson around by the hand. Somehow the boy had managed to get worse overnight. Now he sat in the passenger seat, (he never offered to drive), saying nothing and staring out of the window. Halfway through the morning, somebody even took him for Bodie's bit on the side, and he had to waste precious time disabusing the bastard.
Still no word on Beckerman. Not only that, but half the people Bodie was looking for had heard he was coming and had gone to ground. Progress slowed to a snail's pace. The only possible shadow of a lead took them to a lockup garage in some railway arches south of the river. The lead disappeared when it came out that neither of them had got the number of the car that came out of the garage like a bat out of hell and damn near flattened the pair of them. The realisation that he had stupidly started to rely on having Doyle there to get number plates, just as Doyle relied on him for range-finding, did nothing to improve Bodie's temper.
Confessing the mistake did even less to improve Cowley's. The tongue-lashing they both got smarted all the more because they knew they deserved it, and Bodie was surprised but relieved to find that they were still to get the weekend off.
He drive home whistling, feeling better than he had in days. He had been looking forward to this weekend rock climbing for weeks. Murphy had promised to show him and Doyle a few extra tricks of the trade and neither of them was fool enough to turn down the chance of a bit of tuition from the expert.
He did the shopping for the next few days and, when he had packed it all away, rang Doyle's place to see if he wanted to come out for a curry. There was no answer -- obviously he wasn't back yet.
SATURDAY
He woke bright and early to the sound of someone playing Beethoven's Fifth on his doorbell. He could feel the daft grin on his face as he stumbled out of bed and thumbed the intercom.
"Where the `ell have you been, Doyle?" he growled.
But it was Murphy, elbowing his way past him, laden down with gear for the weekend. "Morning Sleeping Beauty," he said, offensively bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. "I take it your partner has yet to show. Tut tut, 3.7! Sign of advancing years that -- inability to rise and shine. What's for breakfast?"
Bodie left him frying bacon and took himself off for a shower. He was feeling pretty good. The sun was shining, the skies were clear and he was off for a weekend with a couple of mates – bit of climbing during the day, a bit of boozing and bird chasing at night. Life didn't get much better.
He got dressed and they had breakfast, Bodie had laid in extra supplies for the purpose, and waited for Doyle to arrive, squabbling amiably over the newspaper Murphy had brought with him. At nine o'clock they phoned Doyle's place to find out what was keeping him; there was no answer. If it had been anyone else they would both have been pretty pissed off by now, but this was not like Doyle, and by half past they were both worried enough to phone Control.
"There's nothing from the alarms, 3.7. Stand by and I'll get back to you."
He put down the phone and shrugged at Murphy. "They'll let us know."
He made more coffee and they sat down to wait. For some reason it had never occurred to him that Doyle would not be back in time. Apart from anything else, they were supposed to be going rock climbing in the Peak District, and Doyle had spent the last month boasting about the countryside near his home town, and the natural superiority of the beer, scenery, chipshops and women of Derbyshire. Surely he had not just forgotten about it?
He looked over at Murphy and caught him looking back. This wasn't like Doyle at all.
"Did I tell you I thought I saw him yesterday?"
Bodie looked at him, warily. Was Murphy trying to cheer him up? Surely to god he didn't look that worried? "No -- where?"
"On The Strand. I only got a glimpse, and the bloke I saw was wearing a suit, but for a second or two...."
Bodie grinned and sat back, putting his feet on the coffee table, relieved by the genial insult to his partner's taste in matters sartorial. "Doyle's got a suit -- might have been him."
"No -- this wasn't a Doyle suit, this was a suit suit."
Bodie laughed but he knew what Murphy meant. While certainly not effeminate, there was something distinctly dandified about Doyle when he dressed up, a sense that, while he knew what a man in a suit was supposed to look like, he preferred not to pander to the conventionalities.
The phone rang, startling them both. "3.7? This is Control. Message from Alpha One. Message reads, `4.5 on leave, current whereabouts known. No cause for alarm.' Message ends."
He hung up and told Murphy who, equable as ever, shrugged and looked at his watch. "Hardly worth going now -- fancy a run by the river?"
"Might as well." They changed into track suits, Murphy digging his, crumpled and not very nice to know, out of the boot of his car, and they drove down to the river near Kew. The sun was warm for October and the breeze off the river was very pleasant, but for Bodie there was something not quite right about the run. It took him a while to work out it was because their strides did not match. He and Doyle were very much of a height, and Doyle's tendency to over-stride matched them up almost perfectly. He found himself continually having to add a pace to keep them straight.
They ended up in a pub overlooking the river, downing a well-deserved pint and, after a few minutes, Bodie could not help going back over old ground. "It's bloody odd though, isn't it?" he said. "Why should he just not turn up? He can be an irritating sod, but he's not usually that bad, and he was looking forward to going."
Murphy grinned, pulling his top away from his chest to let the air cool him. "Only because he knew he'd be better at it than us."
"You reckon?"
"Oh yes, he's got the right physique for it. You and me, we're too big for the pure rock climb, but him -- he was made for it. Remember that De Kuiper business? He was up the side of that warehouse like Incy Wincy Spider. Reminded me of a character in a comic I used to get as a kid, `Spring-heeled Jack -- Thief of Old London'. Every week there'd be pictures of him, climbing up the side of buildings or running across the rooftops – spit image of Doyle." He took a pull at his pint and changed the subject. "How're you getting on with Jackson?"
Bodie sighed. "Don't ask -- he's about as much use as a chocolate teapot. God alone knows why Cowley recruited him. He leaps a foot anytime anyone speaks to him."
"Bodie, he leaps a foot every time you speak to him. You do realise the poor little bugger's terrified of you?"
"Me!" Bodie was genuinely outraged. "I'm a pussy cat."
"According to him, you treat him like an idiot...."
"He is an idiot!"
"You never explain anything, and you blame him for not doing things he has no idea you're expecting him to do." Murphy hesitated and then said it anyway. "You know it's not his fault he's not Doyle." Then, before Bodie, could react, he drained his pint and jumped to his feet. "Come on, last one to the car is an MI6 mole," and he ran for the door.
Back at his flat, Bodie waved Murphy off and did his best to have a shower under the pathetic dribble that was all the clapped-out plumbing could provide. As he turned and twisted in a probably futile effort to get all of him wet, he forced himself to look at what Murph had said.
He did not like what he saw. Murph was right, he had got so used to Doyle that, when Jackson failed to live up to that high standard, he had let himself fall into the elementary trap of treating a raw recruit like a seasoned pro. Hell, he'd spent long enough as an NCO not to be so stupid. He still didn't think Jackson had what it took, but he probably wasn't as bad as Bodie had let him become.
He finished rinsing off the soap with the aid of a pint mug he kept beside the bath and dressed with no particular idea of what to do with the rest of the day. His current girl, a journalist with a woman's magazine, was away from Town on assignment and, anyway, he wasn't really in the mood. He felt uneasy and restless. He did not like knowing that he had cocked-up with Jackson, and he had to stop himself from blaming Doyle for the whole sorry business.
After a sandwich he did not really want, he found himself on the way to his partner's place, for reasons he refused to examine too closely.
He let himself in and had another, closer, look round. This was not only worrying, it was getting weird. Most of Doyle's clothes and all of his luggage was still here, and his paints were still in their box under the stairs. Doyle always took his paints when he went on holiday.
So where the hell had he gone in the clothes he stood up in? Doyle was between girls at the moment and he had few, if any, friends not on the squad. Bodie knew his partner was estranged from most of his enormous family but he also knew there were a couple of sisters he was still in contact with, and a younger brother he had yet to give up on. Perhaps one of them had shouted for help -- nothing more likely than Doyle dashing north to deal with it. Only if that was it, why had he not told anyone but Cowley?
SUNDAY
An hour's driving round revealed that Doyle's bikes and both his cars (including the one Bodie was not supposed to know about) were all where they should be. He supposed Doyle could have gone wherever it was by train, but why would he sacrifice the mobility of his own wheels? Unless he was still in London, in which case where the hell was he?
It was more than a bit worrying. He had last seen Doyle on Tuesday night, when he had come round to borrow a dark tie for the funeral. He had seemed a bit subdued, but nothing out of the way for a moody little sod getting ready for a funeral. Something had happened between then and the following evening, bad enough to get Doyle to ask for leave and bad enough for Cowley to grant it. Something that had sent Doyle away from home for more than just a couple of days without telling his partner.
Bodie went home with a host of unanswered questions and a set of self-supplied answers, spun out of nothing, that he had to work hard to ignore.
MONDAY
Body-guarding. Some visiting German he had never heard of, something to do with a joint operation against a terrorist group he had never heard of either. They were a four-man team, with Lucas and McCabe taking the close-work and Bodie and Jackson as the outer guard. Mindful of Murphy's warning, he took good care to explain exactly what was required and what the boy was to do if anything hit the fan, which it did on the way back to the German's embassy after the meeting.
An attempted hit, first a clumsy attempt to force the lead car off the road and then a bungled go at shooting the German through the bullet-proof window of his car. When Bodie and Jackson arrived in the second car, the would-be assassins panicked and ran.
He took after them, Jackson to his right and behind him. Over a garage forecourt and up a back street.
It was bad country -- a double row of back-yards, handkerchief-sized squares with waist-high walls, Victorian outside privies converted into little sheds. Half a hundred hiding places in this one street.
They took the yards one at a time and found nothing; and the whole time they worked, Bodie's scalp crawled. He felt vulnerable in a way he had not in years. For the first time he understood why Lake had retired after Williams bought it, not suited to solo work and unable to work with anyone else, his reactions too attuned to a dead man to ever trust like that again.
He was glad when the day was over.
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