Professionals
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- 3 -
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Over the next few days, Bodie followed Cowley’s orders and watched Doyle closely. While he carried out his job with his usual efficiency, there was a coldness, and a ruthlessness, about him that hadn’t been there before, and a detachment that scared Bodie because he was no longer sure, if the chips were down, that he could rely on him. He didn’t tell Cowley that, only about the calculated efficiency that seemed to have taken him over, hoping that he was just imagining the rest of it.
Three weeks after Julia’s death, they’d finally got a lead on Mottola’s gang. An informer had told them the date, and place, where they were to pick up a shipment of heroin, and Cowley’s team were going to stake out the docks and, hopefully, catch them red handed.
Cowley had transferred Doyle to other duties, with instructions to all the men not to discuss the case with him, not wanting him to find out about the stakeout for fear of Doyle’s reaction. But Cowley hadn’t bargained for Doyle’s ‘copper’s nose’.
On the night of the stakeout, Bodie, and several of the other men, disguised as dock workers, moved into position. Cowley was parked nearby, out of sight.
At the appointed hour, Mottola and his men arrived. They disappeared onto the ship and Cowley’s men moved, in readiness to catch them, red handed, on their exit.
Cowley’s black limousine appeared out of the night and he climbed out, clad in a black cromby coat.
A short time later, Mottola’s men reappeared and the CI5 men pulled their guns.
“That’ll be far enough.” Cowley called up to Mottola.
In the shadows, a figure moved stealthily towards the group. Doyle, dressed all in black, had waited and watched. Now he saw the men he believed to be responsible for Julia’s death – Gianni DiCaprio and Jake Mottola. ‘Fight fire with fire’ was Cowley’s motto. Well, that was what Doyle was going to do. They’d killed Julia, an innocent. Now he would avenge her.
Slowly, he crept closer, his Smith & Wesson grasped firmly in both hands.
No-one saw him until the first shot rang out, hitting DiCaprio square between the eyes. He folded up, dead before he hit the ground.
As the CI5 men jumped, and looked around them for the mystery gunman, Mottola dived for cover as Doyle’s second shot whizzed past his ear.
Alerted to his position by the explosion of the second shot, Bodie instantly recognized, even in the dark, the stance of the gunman.
“Doyle!” he shouted, breaking into a run, “No..!”
The other CI5 men got their attention back on Mottola and his gang while Bodie made a flying tackle on Doyle, knocking him to the ground. They struggled for possession of Doyle’s gun until Doyle hefted a knee to Bodie’s groin before scrambling to his feet.
Bodie, doubled up on the ground, gasped, “R-ray… no…” as Doyle ran towards the ship, his sole thought to find Mottola and kill him.
One of the other men ran towards Doyle and grabbed his arm. The gun went off, the bullet hitting Cowley in the shoulder. Cowley slumped to his knees, cradling his shoulder, while Doyle and the CI5 man struggled for possession of Doyle’s gun.
Bodie struggled to his feet and ran over to assist, while the other bewildered CI5 men kept their guns trained on Mottola and his men.
“Doyle, no!” Bodie shouted at him, as he and the other man tried to get the gun off him and restrain him, but desperation had increased his strength so much that the two of them together could barely hold him.
They tried to prize the gun from his hand and, one by one, the bullets were expelled as Doyle held grimly onto it, by some miracle none of them hitting anyone else.
One of the other men had run to Cowley’s assistance, as Cowley shouted instructions for the CI5 team to round up Mottola's men, now that Doyle’s gun was empty. The man helped Cowley up and sat him on the edge of the driver’s seat of the limousine. Cowley waved him away to help the other men round up Mottola’s gang, while he radioed for back-up.
Doyle became even more agitated when Bodie and the other CI5 man finally managed to take the now empty gun from him, screaming abuse at Mottola as he struggled frantically to get past Bodie and his colleague, but they finally managed to pin his arms behind him and handcuff him.
“I’ll get you, Mottola, you bastard!” Doyle shouted as Mottola was dragged away from the scene, “I’ll get you… there’s no place for you to hide!”
“Ray, calm down.” Bodie tried to reason with him, but Doyle continued to struggle and kick in an effort to get away from them.
“Ray, we’ve got him. He’s washed up, finished. Let it go.” said Bodie, but Doyle was unheeding.
“Murdering bastard!” he screamed at Mottola.
“Let it go, Ray. He’ll get his. We’ll see to that.” Bodie spoke calmly and quietly as he tried to get through Doyle’s hysteria, but Doyle was oblivious to him.
“What did she ever to do to you?” he yelled in Mottola’s direction as they bundled him into a van, “Why did you have to kill her?” he wailed, breaking into choking sobs, “Why…?”
A private ambulance pulled up near Cowley’s limousine and several paramedics jumped out. One stayed with Cowley while, on Cowley’s instructions, two others sprinted over to where Bodie and the other CI5 operative were still trying to hold onto a struggling, and hysterical, Doyle.
The paramedics, CI5’s own, administered a quick acting sedative to Doyle, while Cowley received emergency treatment for his gunshot wound before being helped into the ambulance to be taken to their own private hospital.
A few minutes later, the other paramedics brought Doyle in, docile now, but weeping helplessly.
The ambulance doors slammed shut and the vehicle began to move off.
Cowley, who had been sitting with his eyes closed, mentally trying to block out the pain from his shoulder, having refused a pain killing injection that would have dulled his senses, opened his eyes and looked at Doyle, sitting opposite, his hands still handcuffed behind him, hunched forward, shaking his head and sobbing, completely beside himself.
Getting up, Cowley moved to sit beside him, and, putting his good arm around Doyle’s shoulder, pulled him towards him.
Doyle leaned into Cowley’s shoulder and, with a wince of pain, Cowley brought his other arm up around him rocking him gently back and forth.
“There, there, laddie…” he said, softly, his Scottish accent pronounced with sympathy, “Jist ye let it all oot, nooh. Everything’ll be a’reet.” Lifting one hand he gently patted Doyle’s unruly curls as he repeated, “Ssh, ssh” still rocking back and forth while Doyle sobbed like a baby in his arms, and if any of Cowley’s men could have seen him they would not have believed their eyes.
Doyle had quietened down by the time they reached the hospital, just making periodic mewling sounds, like a stranded puppy.
When Cowley released him into the care of the hospital staff he felt strangely bereft.
After having his wound cleaned and stitched, he went in search of the psychiatrist who was evaluating Doyle’s condition.
He entered the room where the psychiatrist and his team of medics were gathered around Doyle’s bedside.
Doyle was now clad in a white hospital gown and had been heavily sedated, his wrists secured by leather straps attached to the bed frame.
“How’s he doing?” Cowley asked.
“We won’t be able to do a full evaluation until we’ve stabilized his condition,” said the psychiatrist, “but, all the signs indicate a complete emotional breakdown.” He shook his head, “I’ve known Doyle since he was in the Met, when I was the Police Psychologist, and he’s the last person I’d expect this kind of thing to happen to.”
“His file will be on your desk first thing tomorrow. When you’ve read it, you’ll understand.” said Cowley. Then, with a compassionate look at Doyle he said, “Take good care of him.”
“Of course.” said the psychiatrist, “I’ll let you have my report as soon as I’ve made an assessment.”
Cowley nodded. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
Instead of going home to rest, as he had been told to, Cowley went to HQ to see how the interrogation of Mottola and his men was progressing. There, he ran into Bodie.
“Are you alright, sir?” Bodie asked, worriedly.
“Yes. Just a flesh wound.” snapped Cowley, “How’s it going?”
“Slowly.” sighed Bodie, “They’re tough nuts, but we’ll crack ‘em.”
Cowley nodded.
“How’s Doyle?” asked Bodie.
Cowley’s expression clouded.
“The psychiatrist won’t be able to evaluate for a while, but it looks like a complete emotional breakdown. They’d got him sedated and in restraints when I left.” He sighed, deeply, “It’s going to take a while for him to recover… if he does recover.” he added, thoughtfully.
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Bodie looked shocked. Cowley saw his expression and patted his arm. “Don’t worry.” he said, lowering himself onto a chair, feeling suddenly drained, “If anyone can make it, Doyle can.”
Bodie nodded. “You should go home and rest, sir.” he said, seeing the fatigue in his chief’s face.
“Aye. Maybe you’re right at that.” Cowley acknowledged. He got to his feet. There was nothing more for him to do here tonight. His men had everything under control. “You know where to reach me if anything comes up?”
“Yes, sir.” said Bodie.
Cowley left and went home. The grandmother clock in the hall was just chiming one a.m. as he dropped his keys on the dresser and went into the sitting room.
Instead of going up to bed, he poured himself a large glass of vintage malt and sank down into a leather armchair by the hearth, switching on a small lamp on the small table at his side.
He sipped the scotch, his mind not on the stake out, or the interrogation of Mottola’s men, but on Doyle. Being an only child, and never having married and had children of his own, Cowley had no family, something he’d come to regret in recent years, and he looked on all of his men as surrogate children, but Doyle and Bodie especially so.
He’d excelled himself when he’d teamed them together. Their personalities were like chalk and cheese – Doyle; calm, casual, in both dress and manner, artistic and romantic, thoughtful and caring, preferring words rather than war, Bodie; just the opposite. Ex-army soldier and mercenary, hot headed, egotistical, with a penchant for expensive clothes, fast cars and pretty girls, cynical and calculating, given to action rather than words. Yet, when it came to getting the job done, no two worked better.
At some deeper level they were in perfect harmony. Cowley had seen them go into a fight, with no prior preparation, moving in unison, covering and supporting each other without exchanging a word, each knowing instinctively what the other would do next. There was no conscious ‘leader’, they moved towards their target as a single unit. Poetry in motion. All of his men were good, Cowley hand picked them all himself, but Doyle and Bodie had something special together, an indefinable quality that Cowley had seen only on a few occasions.
It was a quality that extended to Cowley himself. They saw, and felt things the same way that he did, more often than not, and he found himself in tune with them a lot more frequently than with his other men and, over the years, he’d become extremely fond of them on a personal as well as professional level and, even though he never let it show - yelling at them and reprimanding them just as much, if not more, than he did the other men, since they tended to go off and do their own thing a lot of the time which got up Cowley’s nose – he suspected that they knew how he felt, and they, in turn, despite joining in with, and often initiating, the joking and barrack room behaviour that went on behind Cowley’s back were very protective of their boss and he had no doubt that they would give their lives without hesitation, to save his, if necessary, although they would die rather than admit it.
Cowley took another sip of his scotch, thinking of the trip to the hospital earlier, of cradling Doyle in his arms as he’d cried like a baby and of the paternal feelings it had aroused in him. If he’d had a son, he couldn’t have asked for him to turn out better than Doyle.
He frowned, thinking back over the events of the last few weeks and wondering if Doyle was strong enough to come back from this. He was physically strong, and had always seemed mentally strong, until now. But the fact that he had even reached this crisis point must surely indicate a basic mental instability? If so, it would signal the end of his career on Cowley’s elite squad.
Cowley sighed. He would be a great loss to CI5. And what of Bodie? How would he cope? He was physically tough, moreso even than Doyle, and, if even half of the things he’d heard about Bodie’s past were true, he was mentally tough too, but Cowley found himself wondering, now, how Bodie would have reacted in Doyle’s shoes.
Bodie rarely allowed himself to get emotionally attached to anyone, and Cowley wondered it if was because he couldn’t handle being hurt. His unhappy childhood – losing his Mother while still a toddler and being farmed out amongst relatives, to enable his father to go out to work – and to go out drinking – had left him emotionally immature in some areas.
He hated rejection and positively sulked when told off, and, despite his emotional detachment, had an unconscious need to be needed having felt neglected and unloved as a child. Faced with what Doyle had lost in his life, Cowley wondered whether Bodie, too, would have cracked under the strain. And how would he handle being paired up with someone else? Doyle had a calming influence on Bodie’s temperamental nature, more often than not diffusing his frequent outbursts of temper with humour and joviality in a way that no-one else could, although, occasionally, even he would get riled up by Bodie’s attitude and they would get into a slanging match, but, admirably, Cowley thought, Doyle had always seemed to be able to rise above it and not let it sour their relationship.
Bodie had had run-ins with practically everyone on the squad at one time or another, and had come close to being suspended for insubordination on more than one occasion. Cowley couldn’t think of anyone else on CI5’s team who would be able to handle Bodie. Even Cowley himself had difficulty sometimes.
No, without Doyle, Cowley reckoned it wouldn’t be long before Bodie lost it, big time, and got himself thrown off the squad, because however much Cowley prided them, cared for them, he couldn’t bend the rules to keep any of his men, however much he might want to.
He wasn’t aware of falling asleep until his housekeeper arrived at 8.30am the next morning, when the bang of the front door woke him with a start.
The housekeeper was no less startled than Cowley, since he had invariably left for work at this hour of the day.
Cowley washed and dressed and set off for headquarters, stopping to pick up a sandwich on the way.
As if to reinforce his thoughts of the previous evening, he arrived to find Bodie in the middle of a heated argument with two of the men who had been on the stakeout at the docks the previous night.
As he entered the building, he could hear their raised voices all the way down the corridor from the reception area.
From what he could ascertain from the conversation it appeared that the men had criticized Doyle for gatecrashing the stakeout, and had accused him of putting all their lives, and the success of the stakeout, in jeopardy, with his irrational behaviour, and had inferred that Doyle was crazy and should be kicked off the squad. It was an understandable reaction under the circumstances, and if it had been anyone except Doyle Bodie would probably have agreed with them, but he had, of course, leapt to Doyle’s defence and, as Cowley entered the Operations Room, they were squared up to each other, yelling at the top of their voices.
Bodie, already stressed out by what had happened to Doyle, and tired, after working all through the night interrogating Mottola and his men, looked fit to burst, his face flushed and his eyes blazing, and the other men were only marginally less angry, looking disgustedly at Bodie as though they thought that he was crazy too, for defending Doyle’s irrational behaviour.
They were so busy arguing, they didn’t notice Cowley enter the room until his voice boomed, “Just what the hell is going on here?”
They all stopped shouting abruptly, looking uncomfortably at the floor as Cowley’s beady eyes bored into each of them in turn.
“I asked a question.” he snapped, angrily.
“Just a slight difference of opinion, sir.” muttered Paul Reece.
“If that was a ‘difference of opinion’ I’d hate to see a full scale row.” Cowley bellowed at him, “What about?”
Reece lowered his gaze and shuffled nervously from one foot to the other, not wanting to say.
“I said, what about?” Cowley glared around their bowed heads.
Finally, Brian Turner said, quietly, “About… Doyle’s behaviour last night, sir… he could have got us all killed…”
Bodie’s lips compressed, but he refrained from comment.
Cowley glared at each of them in turn.
“Firstly,” he began presently, his voice quiet yet losing none of its authority, “if judgment needs to be passed, on Doyle's, or anyone else’s, behaviour, I will be the one to pass it, not you. Do you understand?”
Three muttered ‘yes sir’s’ floated up from three bowed heads.
“Secondly,” Cowley continued, “we do not have ‘differences of opinion’ in this organisation. We are a team. If one is wrong, we’re all wrong. We sink, or swim, together. We have enough shit to handle, out there,” he waved a hand towards the street, “without fighting amongst ourselves.” He paused, glaring at each one of them and at the other men, in the Communications Room, on the other side of the glass partition that separated it from the Operations Room, who were watching anxiously through the window.
“If any of you have concerns, about any individual, or any organisational policy, you may bring them to me, privately, and I will take whatever action that may be necessary. But, the next person I hear gossiping, or criticizing any member of this organisation, out of turn, will be dismissed. Immediately. Do I make myself clear?”
A chorus of ‘yes sir’s’ came back at him.
“Good. Then get back to work.” Cowley turned on his heel, “Bodie. My office, now.” he growled, as he walked away without a backward glance.
Reece and Turner scurried away, while Bodie reluctantly followed Cowley to his office, closing the door after him.
“You,” Cowley hurled over his shoulder at him, as he tossed his overcoat angrily onto the Chesterfield sofa against the wall, “were supposed to be keeping an eye on Doyle.” He limped to his desk and sat down, flexing his injured shoulder which ached profusely.
“You were supposed to inform me if it looked like he was going over the edge.” he said, turning his hard stare onto Bodie’s face.
Bodie looked embarrassed.
“I had no idea.” he stammered, “He’s been withdrawn, like I told you, but other than that he hasn’t acted strange and he’s done his job with no problems. I didn’t think he even knew about the stakeout, and I had no idea he was worked up enough to pull a stunt like that.”
Cowley glared at him.
“You should have made it your business to know. You’re his partner for God’s sake. You’re supposed to watch each other’s backs.”
Bodie, his expression exasperated, spread his hands in front of himself, as though to ask how he was supposed to read Doyle’s mind.
“You let him down, Bodie,” snapped Cowley, “and yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” Bodie muttered, his gaze fixed on the carpet, his cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and guilt.
Cowley sighed, his anger beginning to subside. He stared at Bodie for a long moment, while Bodie continued to stare at the floor.
“I’ve been trying to decide what to do with you while Doyle’s away.” Cowley said presently. Opening a file on his desk, he took out a duty roster and, putting on his glasses, glanced down it.
“John Gaffney is going to be off for a few weeks with the broken leg he sustained in that counterfeiting bust the other week, so you can team up with his partner, Mark Taylor, for now. Although, after this morning’s exhibition, I ought to put you on desk duties.” he added, waspishly, as he slapped the piece of paper down and regarded Bodie sternly over the top of his glasses.
“Do you have any unfinished business to take care of before you join him?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well.” Cowley nodded, “Go home and get some sleep and pick up with Taylor in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.” Bodie turned to go.
“I’ll keep you posted on Doyle’s progress.” Cowley said, to his back, “He won’t be allowed visitors while he’s in the psychiatric wing.”
Bodie looked back over his shoulder. “Thank you.” he said, quietly.
Cowley picked up a file, and his pen, and turned his attention to the letter awaiting his signature, effectively dismissing him.
Just as Bodie opened the door, Cowley said, “Bodie.”
Bodie paused. “Yes, sir?”
“I don’t want to have to suspend you, Bodie. Watch your temper. Is that clear?” Cowley said, without looking up from his papers.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Cowley continued with his work and Bodie left the room, blowing out his cheeks.
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