Knife Edge (16 page)

1.53 P.M.

    'You're crazy,' said Julie Neville, a note of incredulity in her voice.

    Doyle took another drag on his cigarette and held her gaze.

    'You want to use my daughter as bait to catch Bob?' she said, shaking her head. 'I can't believe that.'

    'It's Lisa he wants,' Doyle said. 'That's all he wants. Not money. Not some political bullshit and no plane to fucking Cuba. He wants his daughter, pure and simple.'

    'No wonder they sent you after him. You're crazier than he is. Do you honestly believe I'd let you give Lisa to him?'

    'I'm not talking about giving her to him, I'm talking about using her to tempt him out into the open.'

    'You're talking about using her as bait. You can call it what you like but that's what you want to do.'

    'A lot of people are going to die if I don't get him soon. All I want is a little help. She wouldn't be in any danger. I'd be there.'

    'And that's supposed to make me feel better? Forget it.'

    'He's not going to hurt her, is he? Be logical. She's the only thing he wants. He won't harm her.'

    'Doyle, she's my daughter too.'

    'I'm not going to give her to him.'

    'So what are you going to do?'

    'Tell him he can have her. When he turns up to get her, I'll kill him.'

    Julie swallowed hard.

    'Just like that?' she said softly.

    Doyle nodded.

    'And if something goes wrong? What if he kills you? What happens to Lisa then?'

    The sitting-room door opened and Doyle looked up to see WPC Robertson standing there.

    'There's a phone call for you, Mr Doyle,' she said. 'It's DI Calloway. He says it's important.'

    Doyle nodded and got to his feet, following the policewoman out into the hall and through to the kitchen where she nodded towards the phone.

***

    In the sitting-room, Julie Neville got to her feet and crossed to the TV set. She stood staring blankly at the screen for a moment then switched the set off. She could see her own reflection in the blank eye of the television.

    She moved to the sitting-room window and peered out. A number of cars were parked in the street, but only one of them had an occupant.

    A uniformed policeman was sitting in an Astra about fifteen yards from the front door of number fifty-nine Mitre Road. He was yawning, she noticed, shuffling uncomfortably in his seat, occasionally glancing around at the few people who passed by.

    Julie watched him for a few seconds longer, then made her way out to the hall and up the stairs.

    As she climbed she could hear Doyle's voice coming from the kitchen but she took no notice of what he was saying.

    She reached the landing and headed for the first door on her left.

    Lisa Neville didn't look up as her mother entered, she seemed more concerned with the dolls which were scattered around her. Julie watched as the little girl carefully dressed one in a red swimsuit, using a tiny plastic comb to untangle the knotted synthetic hair.

    Julie felt an almost uncontrollable urge to rush across to her daughter and sweep her up in her arms. Anything just to feel the warmth of her body, but instead she knelt down on the floor beside her child and reached out one hand, stroking the little girl's hair.

    'Mum, do you think Cindy is beautiful?' Lisa held up the swimsuit-clad doll for inspection.

    'Nearly as beautiful as you,' Julie said, smiling.

    'I think I like Barbi better but she hasn't got as many clothes,' Lisa observed, reaching for another of the dolls. 'That's a shame, isn't it?'

    Julie nodded and manoeuvred herself into a cross-legged position beside her daughter.

    'How much longer do we have to stay here, Mum?'

    'Not long, darling,' Julie said, none too convincingly.

    'Is Daddy coming here to see us?'

    
I hope not.

    'No, darling, he's not,' Julie told her daughter. 'I don't know where Daddy is.'

    'When will we see him again?'

    Julie could only shake her head.

    She reached for one of the dolls and held it before her, smoothing the long hair into place.

    'Use this,' Lisa advised, handing her the tiny plastic comb.

    Julie did as she was instructed, getting to her feet when she heard voices in the hallway downstairs.

    She wandered out onto the landing and saw Doyle standing down there, one hand on the front door handle.

    He looked up at her.

    'Got to go,' he said.

    'What a shame,' Julie answered.

    'Think about what I said,' Doyle repeated. 'She wouldn't be harmed. I'd see to that.'

    'I'm supposed to trust you?'

    'Who else have you got?' He opened the door. 'Well, think about it anyway. Because if that's the only way I can get him, then the next time I come back, I'm not asking. I'm taking your daughter.'

    And he was gone.

2.17 P.M.

    Calloway was standing in the corridor outside the interview room when Doyle stepped out of the lift.

    The counter terrorist headed towards the DI, dropping his cigarette butt on to the polished floor, swiftly grinding it out beneath his boot.

    'Well?' Doyle said. 'Has he said much?'

    'Nothing worth a toss,' Calloway told him.

    'How did he take to being pulled in?'

    'How do you think? He's pissed off. He wants to know what's going on.'

    As Doyle put his hand on the doorknob, Calloway gripped his arm, holding him back.

    'For what it's worth, I think you could be right,' the DI said. 'I think he knows something. I'm fucked if I know what, but he's hiding something.'

    'What makes you say that?'

    'Copper's instinct?'

    Doyle smiled.

    As he entered the room both Mason and Baxter looked up.

    'Mr Baxter, this is Sean Doyle,' Calloway said. 'He'd like to ask you some questions too.'

    'Who's next? The fucking tea lady?' snapped Baxter, turning his back on Doyle, who moved around to sit opposite him, reaching inside his jacket for his ID. He flipped open the wallet and pushed it across the table towards Baxter.

    'Counter Terrorist Unit,' he mumbled then leaned back on his chair, a smile hovering on his lips. 'I've heard of your lot.'

    'Only good things I hope,' said Doyle mockingly, retrieving the ID.

    'The real tough guys. Harder than the SAS.' Baxter chuckled.

    'I thought the Paras were the real glory boys,' Doyle prompted.

    'We did what we had to do in uniforms. We didn't have to hide.'

    'Is that what Neville thought?'

    'How the fuck do I know?'

    'You were in his unit. You knew him.'

    'I've already answered these questions,' Baxter protested.

    'Not for me you haven't,' Doyle reminded him sharply.

    The two men regarded each other coldly for a moment then Doyle looked up at Calloway. 'I'll speak to Mr Baxter alone if that's all right?'

    Calloway hesitated a second then nodded, gesturing to Mason to follow him out of the room.

    The DS followed reluctantly, closing the door.

    Doyle pulled out his cigarettes, lit one then offered the pack to Baxter who declined.

    'Look, I'm not going to bullshit you, Baxter,' Doyle said. 'I know you served with Neville, I know you and he were close, I know you've been in contact with him since you left the army.'

    
Don't push it too early.

    Baxter looked surprised.

    'I don't give a fuck about you; Neville's the one I'm interested in and I'm going to find him with or without your help, but I want to know if he got his equipment from you. The equipment he's using now.'

    
Careful. One step at a time.

    'I don't know what you're talking about,' Baxter said dismissively but not too convincingly.

    'Neville's got enough weapons and explosives to fight a fucking war, I just want to know if he got them from you.'

    Baxter cracked out laughing.

    'Did I say something funny?' Doyle hissed.

    'The army said I supplied weapons to the IRA and the UVF,' Baxter said, smiling.

    'And did you?'

    'Maybe I did. Who fucking cares? It's all over now, isn't it? In ten years nobody's even going to remember anything that happened in Ireland. It's history already.'

    'Tell me about it, I was there too, you know,' Doyle snapped.

    'Yeah, you were there,' Baxter murmured, his tone lower but still venomous. 'Not on the fucking streets you weren't. Not being gobbed at by women and kids. The people we were supposed to be out there helping. No. Not the fucking Counter Terrorist Unit, creeping around undercover somewhere. We were the ones out in the open. Target practice for any cunt with an Armalite. One day they'd talk to you, the next they'd be throwing fucking bricks. None of us knew who was on our side.'

    'And Neville felt the same way.' It came out as a statement, not a question.

    'Fucking right he did. We all did. We knew we could rely on each other, nobody else.'

    'And it's still like that, isn't it?' Doyle mused. 'Neville told me he missed it.'

    'When did you speak to him?' Baxter blurted, genuinely surprised.

    'Earlier today.'

    'Why did they send you, Doyle? Who sent you?'

    'After Neville? The army.'

    'Why?'

    'Why the fuck do you think? They want him dead.'

    'And you're going to do it?'

    Doyle nodded slowly.

    'You'd kill one of your own for them?' Baxter said quietly.

    'Do you think I want to?'

    'Do you miss it, Doyle?'

    The counter terrorist took a long drag on his cigarette.

    'Every fucking day,' he said finally. 'But it's over. All that's left is Neville.'

    'We were important then. Neville, me. You. Our lives meant something.'

    'We all sing the same fucking song, Baxter. But you know what, you're right, nobody gives a fuck and Neville knows that and that's why he's doing what he's doing now. I just want to know if he's doing what he's doing with stuff that he got from you.'

    The door opened and Mason peered in, his face flushed.

    'Doyle,' he said breathlessly. 'Phone call.'

    'Not now,' he hissed.

    The DS remained where he was. 'It's Neville.'

2.23 P.M.

    'That's the deal. If you let me see Lisa, I won't activate the next bomb.'

    Doyle perched on the edge of the desk, eyes fixed on the speaker-phone.

    Calloway watched the face of the counter terrorist. If there were any thoughts flickering away behind those steel grey eyes then they didn't show in his expression.

    Mason looked anxiously at the speaker-phone and then at his superior.

    'Did you hear what I said, Doyle?' Neville repeated finally, his voice even. 'It's a fair deal. It's more lives saved. How many have died so far? Twenty? Thirty?'

    'Why? Are you keeping a scorecard?' Doyle growled.

    Calloway shot him an anxious glance.

    'This isn't about your daughter, Neville. I know that,' Doyle said.

    'I want her back.'

    'And you know you'll never get her, so why don't you stop the bullshit now.'

    Calloway shot out a hand and grabbed Doyle's arm. 'What the hell are you trying to do?' he demanded. 'Provoke him?'

    Doyle pulled away angrily, glaring at the DI.

    'It's over, Neville,' Doyle said with an air of finality. 'Set the fucking bomb off. And the next, and the next.'

    'That's a lot of lives, Doyle,' Neville told him. 'How many do you want on your conscience?'

    'I haven't got a fucking conscience.'

    'Make the deal,' Calloway snapped angrily.

    Doyle fixed him in a withering stare.

    'We've got a friend of yours here, Neville,' the counter terrorist said. 'Kenneth Baxter. Remember?'

    There was a moment's silence at the other end of the line.

    'You got the gear from Baxter, didn't you? The guns, the explosives.'

    A few more seconds of silence then Neville chuckled. 'Is that what he told you?'

    'Yeah. Dropped you right in it. Up to your fucking neck.'

    'You're a fucking liar, Doyle,' Neville laughed.

    'Blew the gaff on you without even thinking about it,' Doyle continued. 'You see, he knows it's over too. He knows, I know. It doesn't matter what you do, Neville. Things are different now. Times have changed. The fighting in Ireland is over. You should have died in Belfast. Perhaps we all should.'

    'What the hell are you talking about?' hissed Calloway. 'Just make the deal, for Christ's sake.'

    'Who's there with you?' Neville wanted to know.

    'The police,' Doyle informed him.

    'Are they listening to me?'

    'Hanging on your every word,' Doyle chided.

    'Neville, listen to me,' Calloway said, moving closer to the speaker-phone.

    Doyle swung himself off the table, digging out his cigarettes.

    'Are you serious about making a deal?' Calloway continued.

    'You let me see Lisa and I won't detonate the next bomb,' Neville repeated.

    'OK,' Calloway said. 'Where do you want us to bring her to?'

    'Hyde Park,' Neville said. 'The corner by Marble Arch. I want her there by three-thirty. One minute later and I'll detonate the next bomb.'

    'She'll be there, I give you my word.'

    'Fuck your word. I want my daughter.'

    'How do we know we can trust you?' Calloway insisted.

    'You don't,' Neville said flatly.

    He hung up.

    Calloway spun round and glared at Doyle.

    'I'm trying to buy us more time and you're antagonising him,' the DI snarled. 'What the fuck are you playing at?'

    'You play your way, I'll play mine,' Doyle snarled.

    'What about Baxter?' Mason interjected.

    'Let him go,' Doyle said. 'But put a tail on him.'

    Mason looked at his superior, who hesitated a second then nodded.

    The DS slipped out of the room.

    'He's got to be stopped, Doyle,' Calloway said.

    'You did the right thing,' the counter terrorist told him.

    'Then what the hell was that bullshit with Neville?' the DI said angrily. 'What's going on between you and him?'

    Doyle smiled. 'You'd never understand,' he said softly. Then he glanced at his watch. 'Who's going to tell Julie Neville you're using her daughter as bait because I don't think she'd want to hear it from me.'

    'I'll take care of it. I'll send somebody to pick her up.'

    'Half three, he said, didn't he?' Doyle mused.

    Calloway nodded. 'Let's hope to God he shows up.'

    'He'll be there,' said Doyle, sucking gently on his cigarette.

    He slipped a hand inside his jacket and patted the butt of the automatic.

***

    Neville replaced the phone and stepped away from the booth.

    The woman who had been waiting for him to finish pushed forward immediately, practically bumping into him.

    Neville looked at her sternly for a second until she turned her back on him and began jabbering into the phone in a language he didn't recognise.

    
Foreign bitch.

    Across the road the magnificent edifice of St Paul's Cathedral rose up before him, the dome pushing upwards towards the cloud-filled sky.

    Hundreds of sightseers were milling around the building, some sitting on the step which led up to its main entrance. He saw several people eating sandwiches on the stone stairway. A young man dressed in a long black T-shirt and shorts was swigging from a can of Coke, pointing towards the dome.

    Neville could hear him as he swung his leg over the seat of the Harley Davidson.

    
Another fucking foreigner.

    Neville started his engine, revved it hard for a second. 'I'm coming, Lisa,' he said to himself, then he pulled out into the traffic.