Knife Edge (24 page)

6.19 P.M.

    Calloway put down the phone, waited a second then pressed the receiver to his ear and pressed 'Redial'.

    Julie Neville watched anxiously as the DI waited for an answer, fingers drumming slowly on the desktop.

    'No answer,' he said quietly.

    'What the hell is Doyle playing at?' Mason snapped.

    'It's ringing. He's just not answering it,' the DI elaborated.

    Julie got to her feet.

    'Can't you find out where he is?' she demanded.

    'Not unless he contacts us,' Calloway said.

    'What if Bob's already killed him, taken my daughter?' she said, panic in her voice.

    'Doyle knows what he's doing,' the DI said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.

***

    The mobile continued to ring.

    Doyle heard the phone.

    Or at least he was aware of it, jammed into the back pocket of his jeans. The roar of the Kawasaki's engine relegated it to little more than a burble on the periphery of his hearing.

    They were heading up Tottenham Court Road now.

    Minutes away.

    He glanced down at his watch.

    The lights ahead were on red.

    He pulled up alongside a Range Rover, the driver glancing at him then at Lisa, still perched precariously on the back of the powerful machine, her hands laced into Doyle's belt.

    'Are you all right?' Doyle asked her, glancing back over his shoulder.

    She could only nod, her face drained of colour.

    The lights changed to green and Doyle sped off, swinging right into Bayley Street and then again into Bedford Square, easing off the throttle, eyes scanning the square for the phones Neville had spoken of.

    There was a large, white building directly opposite him, much of its frontage formed from tinted glass. It also bore a huge clock.

    Doyle looked up at the hands crawling round.

    The phones were in front of this building.

    He sped across the cobbled square, narrowly avoiding two men who were crossing in front of him.

    One of them shouted something which he didn't catch.

    Doyle hit the brakes, bringing one foot down to further slow the Kawasaki.

    A woman in her early twenties was emerging from the glass-fronted building, a man a little older beside her. They were chatting animatedly, the woman laughing loudly.

    She was the first to hear the phone ring.

    Doyle saw her look towards it, saw her say something to her companion.

    Saw her begin walking towards it.

    'Oh shit,' he muttered, lifting Lisa clear of the bike, his eyes on the woman.

    The phone had rung twice already.

    'Leave it,' he roared at her.

    She looked at him, as did her companion, but both offered only dismissive glances.

    Doyle ran towards the phone as it rang for the third time.

    'Get away from it,' he bellowed at the woman who now seemed intent on picking it up.

    Her companion, a tall, thin man in a linen suit, his hair slicked back into a pony tail, stepped forward as if to frighten Doyle off.

    The counter terrorist barged the woman aside and picked up the phone just before it could ring for the fifth time.

    'Doyle,' he gasped into it.

    'I'm impressed,' Neville told him.

    'Hey,' said the tall man in the linen suit. 'What do you think you're playing at?'

    Doyle felt a hand on his shoulder.

    'I'm talking to you,' the tall man insisted.

    'What's going on?' Neville demanded.

    'You could have hurt her,' the tall man said, his hand still on Doyle's shoulder.

    'Hang on,' Doyle said into the phone.

    He pulled the Beretta from its holster and jammed the barrel against the tip of the tall man's nose.

    'I'll hurt you if you don't take your fucking hand off my shoulder,' Doyle snarled, thumbing back the hammer.

    The colour drained from the man's face until his flesh was the same colour as his cream jacket.

    Doyle heard a low rumbling sound as the tall man's bowels loosened.

    'Fuck off, you ponce,' Doyle snarled, the gun still aimed at the man's head.

    'Oh my God,' the woman stammered, backing away, tripping on the kerb.

    'Go on, move it. Get away from here,' Doyle continued.

    The man was frozen to the spot. It was as if every muscle in his body had locked. Apart from his sphincter which seemed to be working quite freely.

    'What's happening?' Neville persisted. 'If you're trying to set me up I'll-'

    'Some stupid bitch was going to answer the phone,' Doyle told him. 'Her boyfriend decided to be a fucking hero.'

    'You'd better not be fucking me about, Doyle.'

    'I made it, didn't I? Just talk.'

    Doyle looked round and saw that the man and the woman had fled back inside the glass-fronted building.

    He eased the trigger forward and reholstered the automatic.

    'Is Lisa still with you?' Neville demanded.

    Doyle beckoned her over, handing her the phone.

    'Are you all right, darling?' Neville asked her. 'Is the man looking after you?'

    'Yes, Dad,' she said. 'I didn't like the motorbike though. I thought I was going to fall off.'

    Doyle rolled his eyes irritably.

    'I'll see you soon, sweetheart,' Neville told her. 'Give the phone back to the other man.'

    Lisa did as she was told.

    'What fucking motorbike, Doyle?' Neville hissed. 'I told you only public transport.'

    'You never said that,' Doyle reminded him. 'Besides, how else was I going to get here on time? Or didn't you want me to? Looking forward to letting off another bomb, are you?'

    'Get rid of the bike. Understand? You use public transport or you fucking walk, that's one of the rules. You put my daughter's life in danger, you bastard.'

    'Just give me the next set of instructions,' Doyle demanded angrily.

    Silence.

    'Neville. Are you listening?' Doyle snapped. He thought he could hear chuckling on the other end of the line.

    'I knew I picked the right bloke,' said Neville finally.

    Doyle's knuckles turned white as his grip tightened.

    'Phone box in Cambridge Circus,' Neville instructed. 'It's a straight run, Doyle. You've got ten minutes.'

6.28 P.M.

    Doyle felt as if his lungs were going to burst.

    He was running with his mouth open, sucking in huge breaths which seemed to sear his throat as he gulped them down.

    Even Lisa was breathing heavily and he was carrying her.

    The child had been light, as he'd expected, but running down Tottenham Court Road and then Charing Cross Road clutching her like some kind of oversized doll was proving too much.

    Sweat was coursing down his face and he could feel his T-shirt sticking to his back.

    His heart was thumping so hard against his ribs he feared it might bruise.

    And for the entire journey he was met with curious glances from those he passed. Some even stopped and looked at him, watching him as he sprinted down the thoroughfare clutching the child.

    Some assumed it was his daughter.

    One or two entertained darker thoughts.

    A middle-aged man leaving Foyles with a bagful of books saw Doyle running with Lisa and wondered whether or not to phone the police.

    Was this an abduction?

    He watched as the leather-jacketed man ran on through the crowds, his mind turning one way then the other like some kind of revolving door.

    When Doyle disappeared into a crowd outside the Marquee, the man walked on but the vision remained in his mind.

    The unshaven, long-haired man, his face sheathed in perspiration, bumping uncaringly past pedestrians while he held tightly to the little girl, who looked pale and tired and who clung to the man's shoulders almost reluctantly.

    Doyle saw the flashing blue lights as he passed the Marquee.

    The ambulance was parked on the corner of Old Compton Street, lights turning silently.

    A crowd had gathered, five deep in places, around the emergency vehicle.

    Doyle glanced into the road and saw the twisted frame of a racing bike lying against the kerb.

    There was some broken glass.

    Some blood.

    The car which had hit the cyclist was standing immobile a few yards from the junction, the driver leaning against his vehicle, head bowed. The policemen were talking to the man, one offering a comforting hand on the shoulder.

    The cyclist was lying still on the road, ambulancemen gathered around him.

    Only his legs were visible, the skin having been ripped from his knees and calves. One leg was twisted beneath him and Doyle could see something white protruding from the mass of crimson which covered his shins.

    He guessed that the car must have run over the unfortunate cyclist's legs but, right now, all that concerned him was that the road was blocked.

    The road was blocked. The pavement was clogged with morbid fuckers trying to get a look at the victim.

    Doyle had to get around this diversion.

    He hurried across the road, Lisa now gazing across at the crowd, who reminded Doyle of carrion birds, waiting around for anything interesting. Waiting to pick over the road-kill.

    Maybe a bomb in amongst those rubber-necking bastards wouldn't be a bad idea.

    He tried to suck in more stale air but couldn't. He put Lisa down and stood still for a second, head spinning, hair plastered to the back of his neck. He coughed, hawked and propelled a lump of mucus on to the pavement.

    Lisa looked at him as if he'd just breathed fire.

    'Come on,' Doyle said breathlessly, grabbing her hand. 'Show me how fast you can run.'

    She managed a smile and they set off, her little legs keeping pace with his longer ones.

    They were practically at Cambridge Circus. He could see the phone boxes across the road but the traffic coming from their right was swift and heavy.

    Doyle stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for a gap in the endless stream of vehicles.

    He managed a glance at his watch.

    'Come on, for Christ's sake,' he whispered anxiously, the breath catching in his throat.

    Time was almost up.

    He coughed again.

    The lights at the Circus were changing.

    Amber.

    He picked Lisa up once more.

    Red.

    Doyle ran across the road with as much speed as he could muster, put Lisa down and headed straight for the phones.

    There were three of them.

    One was already ringing.

    Had it just started?

    And ringing.

    He reached the first one and picked it up.

    Dead line.

    The ringing continued.

    How many fucking rings is that?

    He snatched at the second.

    'Doyle,' he gasped into it but then realised that there was only buzzing at the other end.

    Then the ringing stopped.

    'Oh Christ!' he gasped, slumping against the phone box.

    The third phone rang.

    Doyle grabbed the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

    'Neville, listen to me,' he panted.

    'Five rings, Doyle,' Neville said. 'I said five.'

    'You were early,' Doyle rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

    'No. You were late. Firework time.'

    'No, Neville, you bastard, don't-' Doyle bellowed into the handset.

    The line was dead.

6.29 P.M.

    Doyle stood still, hands on thighs, bent forward at the waist, sucking in lungfuls of air.

    Lisa watched him, her eyes drawn to the scar on his left cheek.

    She took a step towards him, mesmerised by the old wound, wanting to touch it, to trace the outline of the mark which ran from his eye to his jaw.

    'Does that hurt?'

    'What?' Doyle managed, perspiration dripping from his chin, splashing on the pavement at his feet.

    'That,' Lisa persisted and touched the scar.

    Doyle gripped her wrist gently and held her, looking into her eyes.

    Lisa looked fearful, then Doyle released her, even managed a small smile.

    'It doesn't hurt,' he said softly.

    It did when it first happened.

    'It happened a long time ago,' he continued.

    How long? Five years? Ten?

    He straightened up.

    Who fucking cared?

    As Doyle pulled the mobile phone from the back pocket of his jeans it rang.

    'Doyle, are you OK?' said the voice and he recognised it immediately as belonging to Calloway.

    'I didn't make it in time.'

    'We know that. Another bomb went off about thirty seconds ago.'

    'Oh Christ. Where?'

    'Baker Street, close to Madame Tussauds. We don't know the extent of the damage or the casualties yet.'

    'Shit,' Doyle hissed.

    'What happened?' Calloway asked. 'How come you didn't get to the phone in time?'

    Doyle thought about hurling the phone away then decided against it.

    'Do you want to come and do this? You're lucky it didn't happen earlier.'

    'What about the next set of instructions?'

    'I haven't had them. He hung up, then detonated the bomb.'

    'Where are you now?'

    'Cambridge Circus, outside the Palace Theatre.'

    The third phone rang again.

    Doyle snatched it up and pressed it to his ear.

    'You're still there,' said Neville. 'I had a feeling you might be, waiting for your next set of orders.'

    'You don't give me orders, Neville. Nobody does,' Doyle snarled.

    'As long as I've got the Semtex, I give the orders, Mister Counter Terrorist.' Neville chuckled. 'It is ironic, isn't it? All those years chasing the IRA, while I was chasing them too. Now you're chasing me. Makes you laugh, doesn't it?'

    'I'm pissing myself.'

    Holding the mobile phone away from him, Doyle could still hear Calloway's voice but it sounded so distant now, swallowed up by the din of traffic. He switched off the mobile and returned his attention to Neville.

    'Whatever the fuck you want, get on with it,' he said irritably.

    'You know what I want.'

    'Yeah, and I'm getting sick of hearing about it.'

    'Tough. This game goes on for as long as I want it to.'

    'Until eight o'clock, you mean. The big one,' said Doyle. 'Or are you full of shit?'

    'What do you think, Doyle?'

    'I think you're fucking dead when I find you.'

    'Shut up and listen. Liverpool Street station, public phones on the concourse close to WH Smith. You've got thirty minutes. Don't fuck it up again, Doyle.'

    Doyle pressed the required digits on the mobile and the call was answered immediately.

    'Neville called back.'

    Calloway wanted to know the next location.

    Doyle told him.

    'Keep away, Calloway,' Doyle ordered. 'And you make sure none of your boys get involved. You know Neville's not fucking about. I'll take care of him.'

    'Doyle, Mrs Neville wants to talk to you,' the DI said.

    'No time,' Doyle told him and switched off the mobile.

***

    DS Colin Mason had sat listening to the conversation with Doyle over the speaker-phone in Calloway's office. Now he made his way down the corridor to his own office and slipped inside, almost furtively.

    The two-way was lying on his desk. It took him seconds to find the frequency he sought, a deafening blast of static signalling its discovery.

    This had gone on too long.

    Neville was making them look like idiots, the fucking maniac.

    Something had to be done, Mason knew that. He also knew his superior was not the man to do it.

    Nor was Doyle.

    The arrogant bastard.

    Neville had to be stopped and, as far as Mason was concerned, there was only one way to do it. More bombs or not.

    'Osprey One, come in, over,' he said into the two-way.

    Then he waited for the police helicopter to reply.