Knife Edge (23 page)

5.57 P.M.

    The train from St James's to Victoria had been crowded. The walkways and platform leading to the Victoria line had been busy too, but the train which was now heading towards Oxford Circus was so jam-packed with people Doyle found it hard to breathe.

    Beside him, Lisa clung to his belt, fascinated it seemed by the large man who was seated opposite her, his bald head gleaming beneath the lights inside the tube.

    He was wearing a dark suit and he was clearly hot. Beads of perspiration were forming on his hairless pate and Lisa watched as one droplet edged its way slowly past his temple and began a slow journey down his cheek towards his jaw.

    As the train slid to a halt, Doyle turned, trying to duck slightly to read the station name on the plate on the tunnel wall. Green Park.

    One more stop.

    No one moved as the doors opened.

    No one got off.

    Instead, the crush inside the train became even more uncomfortable as those at Green Park pushed and shoved their way into the already tightly packed mass inside the carriage.

    Lisa was nearly knocked off her feet by a tall man in faded black jeans and a T-shirt. He seemed not to notice her and she moved closer to Doyle, who was gripping one of the overhead bars as tightly as he could.

    The man in the black jeans was wearing a Walkman and the irritating rattle of the music he was listening to seemed to fill the carriage.

    Behind Doyle stood a woman in her mid-forties. Her hair was impossibly immobile, as if the coiffure had been moulded then welded to her head. She was wearing trousers and a pair of trainers which looked dazzlingly white. She was holding a number of shopping bags, one of which was digging uncomfortably into Doyle's back.

    He looked irritably at her, gazing into her eyes through her glasses.

    She stared back for a moment then turned to the man standing with her.

    He was wearing a baseball cap with nike emblazoned across the front, wisps of white hair poking out from either side.

    'Are you OK, honey?' he said, in a loud accented voice, which attracted a number of stares from other passengers.

    
Fucking Yanks
, Doyle thought.

    The doors slid shut and the train moved off.

    The carriage smelled of perspiration and perfume. Conflicting odours. There was a hint of garlic in the musty air too. Doyle looked around at his fellow passengers as if seeking the culprit.

    Further down the carriage a young woman wearing leggings and a polo-neck sweater was sweeping a hand through her long auburn hair, trying to readjust her position as the train moved away. Doyle studied her face briefly then found his gaze straying to her breasts. Beneath the sweater they were unfettered by a bra. He could see the outline of her nipples pushing against the material.

    
Typical. I'm wedged up against some fat Yank and a bastard who smells of garlic. Why not her?

    He held the woman in his gaze for a few seconds longer. The train lurched to one side and Lisa gripped more tightly to Doyle to prevent herself overbalancing. Not that she would have fallen anyway, the other travellers were too tightly wedged in the carriage to allow her to overbalance.

    Christ, he hated crowds. Hated being so close to other people.

    He rarely travelled by tube and, if he did, he tried to make sure it was after rush-hour.

    Not like now. Right in the middle of it.

    Doyle glanced at his watch.

    The train slowed down.

    Approaching the station.

    It stopped in the tunnel.

    
What the fuck was going on?

    There were a number of groans from inside the carriage.

    The American woman with the shopping bags dug him in the back once more and this time Doyle spun round and glared at her.

    'Why have we stopped?' Lisa asked.

    Doyle didn't answer.

    'Why have we stopped?' she persisted.

    'I don't know,' he snapped back, the vehemence of his reply causing a number of people to look in his direction.

    The train bumped forward a few yards, stopped again then continued on its way.

    As it slid into Oxford Circus station, Doyle was already pushing his way towards the door, pulling Lisa along with him.

    The doors opened and Doyle barged out, through the passengers waiting to board.

    Lisa felt his hand gripping hers tightly. A little too tightly.

    It hurt.

    She tried to twist her hand inside his but the sweat on his palm made his skin slippery.

    As he pulled at her in an attempt to rush her through the heaving throng on the platform, her hand slipped free of his.

    Someone bumped into her, buffeted her away from him.

    Doyle felt her hand slide from his.

    He spun round.

    The passengers both embarking and alighting seemed to swell into one huge amorphous mass. Faces passed before him as he scanned the crowd frantically for Lisa.

6.08 P.M.

    'Shit,' he snarled, pushing past a woman with a baby who was climbing on.

    He scanned the faces around him, then lowered his gaze.

    Where the hell was she?

    Doyle pushed a youth in an rem sweatshirt aside and heard the boy mutter something under his breath.

    The walkway which led across to the Bakerloo line platform was a few feet ahead of him.

    What if Lisa had wandered up there?

    He shoved uncaringly through the passengers, finally catching sight of her.

    She had backed up against the wall and was standing still, looking up with wide-eyed bewilderment at the sea of people surrounding her.

    But she didn't move.

    Sensible kid.

    Doyle reached her and swept her up in his arms, unsure how he should hold her. He heard her grunt in discomfort as he squeezed her a little too hard.

    'A man bumped into me,' she said almost apologetically. 'I couldn't hold on to your hand.'

    Doyle lifted her on to his shoulders and began striding through the crowd.

    Lisa smiled now, perched on those powerful shoulders, happy with her vantage point. She could see over the heads of the other people on the platform.

    'Hold on to my jacket,' he told her and she gripped the leather collar, smiling as Doyle hurried through the crowd.

    When they reached the escalators he lifted her down again and she stood beside him as the moving stairs rose upwards.

    Doyle looked at his watch.

    No time to stand still.

    He grabbed Lisa's hand and they began climbing, watched by a number of people, one or two of whom were a little concerned at how difficult the child in the jeans was finding it to keep up with the longhaired man in the leather jacket and the cowboy boots.

    Doyle reached the top of the escalator and headed for the exit, pausing only briefly to ensure that Lisa was still with him. He ushered her through the automatic gates and squeezed through behind her.

    'There,' he said, pointing to the flight of steps which led up towards Oxford Street and, with the little girl still struggling to stay with him, he began to climb.

    Lisa paused halfway up, stopping to look at a man who was sitting cross-legged and shoeless on the steps.

    His hair was long, so dirty it looked as if it was matted into dreadlocks. He wore a filthy grey overcoat which was open, revealing a body just weeks away from almost complete emaciation.

    A dirty jumper was lying in front of him, folded to form a kind of hollow at its centre. In that hole lay a few coins.

    'Come on,' Doyle said, seeing Lisa staring at the tramp as if hypnotised.

    He smiled at her, his teeth whiter than they should have been for one so dirty.

    She remained gazing at the man.

    'Lisa, for Christ's sake, come on,' Doyle snapped, ignoring the disapproving glance of a woman who passed him on the stairs.

    Finally Lisa dug one tiny hand into the pocket of her jeans and produced two coins.

    Doyle watched as she dropped them on to the reeking jumper.

    Lisa bounded up the steps and joined him, slipping her hand into his. Together they emerged into Oxford Street.

    Top Shop was directly opposite.

    Doyle could see the phone box.

    He urged Lisa to the roadside, waited for a gap in the traffic, then swept her up into his arms once more and darted across.

    She giggled as he put her down, trying to grip his hand again but Doyle pulled away, moving towards the phone box.

    There was a woman standing close to it, pulling a phone card from her purse.

    The phone began to ring.

6.15 P.M.

    Doyle stepped in front of the woman who shot him an angry glance.

    'Excuse me,' she said, reproachfully, standing and watching as he snatched up the receiver.

    'Doyle,' he said.

    Silence at the other end.

    'Neville, can you hear me?'

    'I can hear you.' Neville's voice came down the line. 'Well done. I want to speak to Lisa.'

    'I was here first, you know,' the woman continued from behind Doyle.

    Still he ignored her, instead pulling Lisa to him, handing her the receiver.

    'Hello, sweetheart,' Neville said to her, his tone lightening.

    'Dad, I just saw this man and he had no money,' Lisa babbled. 'So I gave him some of my pocket money.'

    'You're a good girl.'

    'I said, "I was here first",' the woman persisted, tapping Doyle on the shoulder.

    He turned and looked her squarely in the eye, the ferocity of his stare causing her to take a step back.

    'I think he was hungry, Dad,' Lisa continued. 'Perhaps he can get something to eat now.'

    'Good girl. Let me speak to the man with you again,' Neville instructed, waiting while Lisa handed the receiver back to Doyle.

    'You make sure you keep her safe, Doyle,' the expara warned.

    'She's fine. Now get on with it.'

    'Bedford Square, just off Tottenham Court Road.'

    Neville instructed. 'There're public phones on the eastern side. Five minutes.'

    'Don't be fucking ridiculous,' Doyle snarled. 'I can't make that in five minutes.'

    'I've told you before, watch your language in front of my little girl,' Neville rebuked. 'Bedford Square, five minutes or more people die.'

    'You bastard, I'll-'

    'Doyle, if you're worried about getting there on time, do you want some advice? Try running.'

    Neville hung up.

    Doyle looked around, as if hoping to find some kind of divine inspiration in the crowds thronging the pavement or the vehicles clogging the road.

    
What to do?

    On his own he might be able to make the run to Bedford Square in time.

    Maybe.

    With the kid as company he didn't have a chance.

    They could take the tube to Tottenham Court Road then run like hell the last few hundred yards, but if the train was delayed he was fucked.

    
Taxi?

    
Forget it.
The traffic was bumper to bumper. It would take longer by road than any other alternative.

    
Come on, think.

    He glanced to his right and left.

    'Where are we going?' Lisa asked.

    
Come on, time's running out.

    The little girl was pulling at the bottom of his jacket now. 'I want to see my dad.'

    Doyle pulled away from her.

    Jesus Christ. There it was. Fifty yards from him.

    Salvation.

    The Kawasaki KR-1S had stopped at the traffic lights in Oxford Circus, its engine idling, its rider adjusting the strap on his helmet.

    'Don't move,' Doyle said, dropping to one knee so that his face was directly in front of Lisa. 'Promise me you won't move.'

    She nodded.

    He leaped to his feet and sprinted off down the street, bumping into people, knocking them aside in his desperation to reach the bike.

    The lights were still on red.

    Doyle reached the railings at the end of the pavement and hurdled them, ignoring the curious looks from passers-by.

    He ran across to the motor-cyclist and gripped his arm.

    The man pulled away irritably.

    'I need your bike,' Doyle said breathlessly.

    'Fuck off,' the rider said, eyeing Doyle as if he were some kind of lunatic. He revved the engine, as if to force Doyle away.

    Doyle slid one hand inside his jacket and pulled out the Beretta. He pressed the barrel to the rider's head.

    'Get off the fucking bike now,' he snarled.

    The rider did as he was told.

    No argument. No hesitation.

    Doyle holstered the weapon, swung his leg over the seat of the Kawasaki and twisted the handlebars, guiding the bike up onto the pavement.

    The roar of the engine mingled with the screams of pedestrians as they scattered, anxious to escape this maniac who was roaring along the'walkway on such a powerful machine.

    He hit the brakes as he reached Lisa who was still standing obediently by the phone box.

    He shot out a hand to her.

    'Get on,' he said.

    Lisa looked at the bike with a combination of fascination and fear.

    'Now you hold on to my belt as tightly as you can and don't let go, right?' he instructed, almost lifting her up on to the pillion with one hand.

    He worked the throttle then rode on down the pavement, finally swinging the bike on to the road.

    He reached behind him and gently touched Lisa's back in an attempt to reassure her and also to prevent her from toppling off the bike, which was now speeding up Oxford Street, cutting alongside the gridlocked traffic.

    He gunned the throttle once more, wondering, even now, if there would be time.