Knife Edge (17 page)

2.27 P.M.

    Julie Neville regarded her reflection in the full-length mirror then sighed heavily and turned towards the small suitcase on the bed behind her.

    She took out a clean T-shirt and slipped it on, tucking it into her jeans, then she pulled on a pair of white socks and stepped into her Reeboks, one foot perched on the end of the bed as she fastened the laces.

    She hadn't had much time to gather clothes from the remains of the house after the explosion. There hadn't been much left to gather. A handful of things for herself and Lisa. That had been it.

    Lisa.

    She could hear sounds of movement from the bedroom across the landing of the safe house where her daughter still played happily, oblivious it seemed to what had already happened and what might still occur.

    Julie crossed to the front window of the house and looked out.

    The Astra with its solitary uniformed occupant was still parked across the street, the policeman slumped down in the driving seat, head tilted back.

    She wondered if he was sleeping.

    Julie fastened the zip around the small suitcase and felt its weight.

    All she had was in that one small bag.

    All that and Lisa.

    She crossed to the other room, directly opposite, and stood for a second, gazing down at her daughter who was chattering quietly to one of her dolls.

    If the little girl saw her she said nothing and, after a moment, Julie turned and stepped back onto the landing, peering over the banister down into the hall.

    'Lucy,' she called, her voice reverberating in the narrow confines of the stairwell.

    WPC Robertson appeared at the bottom of the steps and smiled up at her.

    'Kettle's just boiled,' said the policewoman.

    'Could you come up for a minute?' Julie asked, trying to control the quiver in her voice.

    'Are you all right?'

    Julie nodded and stepped back, watching as the policewoman began climbing the stairs.

    The steps creaked protestingly as she reached the top.

    'Is anything wrong, Julie?' the policewoman asked, wondering why the other woman's expression had suddenly hardened.

    Julie grabbed for the small suitcase, gripping the handle, swinging it with as much power as she could muster.

    It struck the policewoman in the face, split her bottom lip and knocked her off balance.

    She clutched at empty air for a second then toppled backwards, trying to break her fall, flailing arms smacking against the wall and balustrade.

    Julie stood watching as the WPC tumbled over and over down the stairs, each step bringing a renewed grunt of pain from her.

    As she reached the bottom her head cracked savagely against the floor.

    She tried to rise, blood streaming from her mouth but, with a despairing groan, she fell on to her back, eyes closed.

    Julie dashed into the other bedroom.

    'Come on, darling,' she said urgently, gathering up her daughter's dolls, unzipping the case and shoving them in.

    'What are you doing, Mum?' Lisa protested.

    'We've got to go, quickly. Come on.' There was desperation in Julie's voice now.

    'But, Mum-'

    Julie yanked the little girl upright, gripping her arm tightly.

    'Come on,' she said, barely able to prevent herself shouting.

    As she pushed the last of the dolls into the case she noticed that there were specks of blood on the material.

    The two of them emerged on to the landing, Julie practically dragging her daughter.

    At the bottom of the stairs, WPC Lucy Robertson still lay unconscious, blood running from the wound in her lip. A ribbon of crimson was also flowing from one nostril.

    Lisa gaped at the immobile form as they passed, almost tripping over the outstretched legs.

    Julie headed through into the kitchen and unlocked the back door.

    At the rear of the house there was a small garden, surrounded on three sides by a high wooden fence. Julie headed for the gate at the end.

    She tugged at the latch.

    It was locked.

    'Stay here,' she told Lisa and bolted back inside the house.

    There had to be a key somewhere.

    She glanced at the figure of the policewoman and then scuttled across to her, sliding her hands into the pockets of Lucy's skirt.

    Nothing.

    She tried the blouse which was also flecked with blood.

    There were two keys inside one of the breast pockets.

    Julie took them both and hurried back outside, pushing first one then the other into the lock which secured the gate.

    The second turned easily.

    She pulled open the gate and peered out.

    There was a path leading along the back of the houses. It looked clear.

    As she pushed the gate shut behind her, from inside the house Julie heard the phone ringing.

    'Come on, darling,' she said, looking down at Lisa.

    'Where are we going, Mum?'

    'Away. Just away.'

    They began walking.

    Waterloo was only a couple of streets away.

***

    Inside the house the phone continued to ring.

2.34 P.M.

    Doyle glanced around the room and guessed that there were fifty or more journalists inside.

    Four rows of plastic seats had been hastily arranged before a long table, itself raised on a small plinth. There were notepads on the table, pens, glasses and a jug of water.

    He counted three camera crews, their powerful lights trained on the raised table.

    Microphones had been propped up close to the desk, a maze of cables running from them.

    Every now and then a flash would burst into life, adding even more light to the room. Photographers checked their cameras, reporters scribbled on pads.

    Others stood around talking loudly, many checking their watches.

    Doyle did the same.

    Three minutes past the deadline.

    It looked as if Neville had kept his word and not detonated the next bomb.

    Not yet anyway.

    Units of armed police had been despatched to Hyde Park and its surrounding areas, all with orders not to shoot even if Neville put in an appearance.

    If they killed him, no one would be able to find the other bombs.

    
'The big one goes up at eight.'

    Doyle could still hear Neville's words ringing in his ears.

    How
big
?

    And where?

    Doyle looked anxiously at his watch, his eyes scanning the assembled throng of media.

    Like flies round shit.

    They smelled blood on this one. And if Neville kept up the way he'd been going, they'd do more than fucking smell it.

    A door to the left of the room opened and Doyle watched as Calloway and Mason strode inside in the wake of a powerfully built man with hands like ham hocks.

    Commissioner Frank O'Connor sat down and poured himself a glass of water.

    'Ladies and Gentlemen,' he began, his voice heavily tinged with a Scots accent. 'I would ask you to be brief with your questions after I've read our official statement. Time is the most important factor in this case.' He gestured towards his two subordinates. 'Detective Inspector Calloway and Detective Sergeant Mason are heading the investigation, you may wish to address some points to them when they're ready. As I said, the most important thing about this press conference is that it is kept brief.'

    The room was filled with blinding light as a dozen camera flashes lit up.

    'Two bombs have exploded in the centre of London today,' O'Connor began. 'One at 12.31 p.m. in Piccadilly and a second at 1.31 p.m. in Golden Square. Casualties so far are twenty-one dead and forty-seven injured.'

    'What about the explosion in London Road this morning?' a voice from the back asked.

    O'Connor looked up irritably.

    'There were no casualties caused by that blast,' he snapped. 'Returning to the statement.' He scratched his chin with his finger. 'An investigation is in progress.' The big Scot put down the statement and sipped from his glass.

    A cacophony of shouts filled the room.

    More camera flashes.

    Doyle saw a television cameraman move closer to the table behind which the three policemen sat.

    'Is it terrorists?' someone shouted

    'No,' O'Connor said flatly.

    'How can you be sure? What if it's the IRA?' another voice echoed.

    'We have evidence to suggest that it is definitely not a terrorist group,' the Commissioner said.

    'Who is responsible? Do you have a suspect?' a voice close to Doyle called.

    'Yes, we do. As far as we know one man is responsible for these bombings.'

    'What's his name?' someone else called.

    'I'm not prepared to release that information yet,' O'Connor announced.

    'Why is he doing it? Is he a psycho or are the bombings politically motivated?' another journalist enquired.

    'We haven't sufficient information yet,' O'Connor said, blinking hard as another barrage of flashes went off before him.

    'What steps have you taken to capture the bomber?'

    'There are patrols in most parts of the city,' O'Connor explained. 'We have aerial surveillance in operation too. Rest assured, we will find this man.'

    Doyle smiled to himself.
You fucking hope.

    'Is he armed?' another journalist asked.

    O'Connor looked at Calloway.

    'He is armed,' the DI said, leaning a little too close to the microphones. There was a momentary piercing whine of feedback. The DI tapped the microphone nearest to him almost apologetically.

    'Are you using armed police to get him?' the same journalist persisted.

    Calloway looked at his superior as if for confirmation before answering.

    The big Scot merely nodded almost imperceptibly.

    'We have armed units in the field,' Calloway said.

    'An armed suspect, armed police too, this could be dangerous for the public.'

    'It'll be more dangerous if we don't catch him,' Calloway replied irritably to the journalist's question.

    'Are you sure he's working alone?' a TV interviewer asked.

    'Yes,' Calloway answered.

    'And there are no political motives behind the bombings?' the TV interviewer continued. 'Has he made any other demands?'

    'We're not releasing that information yet,' O'Connor interjected.

    'So he has made demands of some kind?' the interviewer pressed. 'What does he want? Money? Is this bomber holding the city to ransom?'

    'It's nothing as melodramatic as that,' O'Connor said dismissively.

    'Two bombs have already been detonated, can you assure us there won't be more?'

    'We are confident that the suspect will be apprehended within the hour,' O'Connor responded.

    Doyle raised his eyebrows.

    Very fucking optimistic.

    'Will there be more bombs?' the same voice echoed.

    O'Connor got to his feet. 'This press conference is now officially closed,' he said.

    Calloway and Mason also stood up.

    Another volley of flashes accompanied their movement towards the door.

    Doyle slipped out of another door, leaving the journalists to shout more questions at the retreating policemen.

    He found the trio of men in a corridor beyond.

    'Who the hell are you?' O'Connor demanded, casting a distasteful glance at Doyle.

    'Doyle. Counter Terrorist Unit. Army Intelligence sent me after Neville.'

    The big Scot eyed Doyle warily, taking in the long hair, unshaven face, the battered leather jacket, grubby jeans and polish-starved cowboy boots.

    'Why?' the Commissioner wanted to know.

    'He's an ex-para, isn't he?' Doyle said.

    'He's a civilian now, he's nothing to do with the bloody army,' O'Connor snapped.

    'He's been making big fucking bangs with army explosives, shooting your boys with army weapons and he's using his army training to make you look like cunts. I'd say the army had an interest, wouldn't you?' Doyle said quietly.

    O'Connor turned to his officers.

    'Listen, you get this bastard Neville,' he hissed. 'And you get him fast. If those bloody newspaper people start digging, Christ alone knows what they'll come up with. They could have the whole city in panic by four o'clock. Now you take care of this.'

    'We've had a bit of a set-back, sir,' Calloway said.

    O'Connor narrowed his eyes.

    'We were going to meet with Neville, bargain with him,' the DI said. 'He says all he wants is his daughter. The only problem is, we don't have his daughter any more.'

    'Where the hell is she?' O'Connor snarled.

    'We had her and her mother in a safe house in Lambeth,' Calloway explained. 'I was told, just before we went into the press conference, that his wife had fled from there and taken the girl with her.'

    'Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on around here? Why did she run?'

    'I told her we might use the kid as a bargaining tool to get Neville,' said Doyle. 'It must have frightened her.'

    'So it's your fault?' O'Connor snapped. 'Keep your bloody nose out, Doyle. This is police business.'

    'Fuck you,' the counter terrorist retorted. 'I was sent to get Neville and that's what I'm going to do. I don't care how.'

    'So now we've got to find his wife and kid as well as him,' Mason interjected.

    'How the hell are you going to do a deal with Neville when there's no kid to bargain with?' O'Connor demanded.

    'Neville doesn't know that,' Doyle explained. 'He has no idea he's been set up.'

    'And when he does?' O'Connor challenged. 'How many more bombs does he have?'

    Doyle took a drag on his cigarette.

    'When he finds out he's been fucked over,' he said quietly, 'I think we're going to find out exactly how many he's got left.'