Knife Edge (8 page)

10.16 A.M.

    The explosion was deafening.

    The entire upper floor of number ten London Road seemed to rise into the air, propelled by a blast of such thunderous proportions it sounded as if the sky itself had been split apart.

    Roofing tiles, pieces of guttering, lumps of wood and stone all erupted upwards in a shrieking funnel of fire, the concussion blast rolling across the street, knocking those nearby off their feet, deafening them.

    Doyle lay face down, arms covering his head as he waited for the debris to begin raining down.

    What had gone up, after all, had to come down and, seconds after the massive detonation, pieces of brick, wood and all manner of materials began raining down from the heavens.

    A screaming plume of flame shot twenty feet skyward, mushrooming outwards into a thick cloud of black and reddened smoke, the pall spreading rapidly across the heavens like ink across blotting paper. A noxious man-made cloud from which the debris seemed to be pouring.

    Doyle glanced up and saw bricks landing on parked cars.

    A length of timber fully six feet from tip to tip crashed through the windscreen of a police car, the men nearby ducking even lower, one of them falling heavily as a lump of tiling struck his shoulder.

    Glass from the upper storey of the house also sprayed outwards and Doyle hissed in pain as a sliver laid open the back of his right hand. He kept the bleeding appendage clapped to his head until the last of the smoking debris had come to earth, though.

    Slowly, he picked himself up and turned to look at the house.

    Close by, Julie Neville was clutching her daughter to her, her eyes also fixed on what remained of her home.

    Three policemen were gathered around her, one of them holding a blanket which he was attempting to wrap around her shoulders.

    Calloway and Mason moved cautiously across towards Doyle, who was standing in the street slowly bandaging his hand with a handkerchief.

    Sirens were wailing in the distance.

    Lisa Neville was crying.

    Doyle looked across at the child impassively as she and her mother were helped away.

    'Are you OK?' asked Calloway, nodding towards Doyle's injured hand. Blood was soaking through the material.

    The counter terrorist nodded slowly, his eyes still riveted on the destruction the bomb had wrought.

    'Neville's fucking crazy,' Mason rasped. 'Christ knows how many people he could have killed with that bloody bomb…'

    'I don't think he wanted to kill anyone,' Doyle said quietly.

    'Are you stupid?' the DS shouted. 'Look at that fucking house.'

    Doyle grabbed the smaller man by the lapels and dragged him close, pressing his forehead against the policeman's nose.

    'Yeah, look at it, fuckhead,' he rasped. 'Look at the way it's blown.' He pushed the DS away.

    'What the hell are you talking about?' Calloway asked.

    'The blast went upwards,' said Doyle, making an expansive gesture with his hands. 'Up and out. The houses on either side are barely damaged.'

    'I don't get it,' Calloway said, gazing at the wreckage.

    'The bottom floor is still intact. My guess is he only wired the attic, maybe only the roof,' Doyle said. 'That's a neat piece of work. Clever.'

    'I'm glad you approve,' Calloway said irritably, walking towards the house.

    He stepped over burning timber as he approached the front door.

    Beneath his feet, broken glass crunched loudly. It was like walking on a crystal carpet.

    The stench of burning was heavy in the air and millions of tiny cinders were spinning around like filthy snow.

    Calloway coughed as he inhaled the acrid smoke.

    Doyle moved inside the house, into the sitting room.

    'Watch it, Doyle,' Calloway said. 'The fucking ceiling might give way.' He glanced up nervously but the counter terrorist seemed unconcerned.

    There were several deep cracks in the plaster, a diaphanous white dust drifting down from these rents.

    Doyle moved back out of the sitting room and headed for the stairs, taking them carefully, feeling them give, hearing them groan protestingly beneath his weight.

    Halfway up he stopped, but from this vantage point he could see what was left of the upper storey, the light pouring in through the gaping hole made by the explosion.

    The walls were blackened and there were dozens of tiny fires on the landing carpet, even on the walls. Pictures which had hung there lay smashed on the floor, and there was more glass scattered around.

    And everywhere, the acrid stench of smoke clogged in Doyle's nostrils.

    'What did he use?' Calloway asked.

    'Semtex, I could smell it when I came in. He'd have needed three or four pounds to do this kind of damage.'

    'It looks like somebody fired a fucking cannon through the roof,' Mason interjected.

    'This was a controlled explosion,' Doyle said almost admiringly. 'Neville would have known exactly what damage he was going to do, what angle the blast would take. Like I said, this is a clever bit of work. When they said he was an explosives expert they weren't taking the piss.'

    'Where the hell would he have got Semtex?' Mason asked.

    'The same place he got those guns,' Doyle said indifferently. 'And my guess is he's got more of it somewhere.'

    Doyle turned and headed back out of the house.

    'How can you be so sure?' Calloway prompted.

    'I know Neville.'

    As he headed up the path he noticed that there was a small teddy bear lying amidst the debris.

    It was blackened on one side but Doyle stooped and picked it up, rubbing as much of the soot away as he could.

    He dropped it into his jacket pocket and headed towards his car.

    'Doyle,' Calloway shouted after him. 'Where are you going?'

    'There's somebody I need to talk to.'

    'What about Neville?' the DI continued.

    'He can't have gone far.'

    Doyle slid behind the wheel of his car and started the engine.

    Calloway watched as the Datsun pulled away.

10.29 A.M.

    The cat had obviously been dead for a number of weeks.

    The stench it gave off was almost palpable.

    Neville wondered how it had managed to get inside the lock-up in the first place. The building had always been secure.

    It had needed to be.

    The two large wooden doors at the front of the building had been held firmly shut by a series of locks and a rusting chain he'd used to manacle the handles. There was a window in each door, but the glass was so caked in dirt it was practically opaque.

    Inside, the walls were bare brick, dark with mildew in several places which looked like mouldering cankers on the stonework.

    Neville was certain he hadn't been followed.

    Positive he hadn't been seen abandoning the car, or entering the lock-up.

    He'd heard the explosion when he'd detonated the bomb.

    Hard to miss it, he mused.

    They'd come looking for him now and that was what he wanted.

    The police would come.

    Doyle would come.

    
I'll bury the fucking lot of you.

    In one corner of the lock-up, boxes were stacked high. He'd put them there himself the last time he'd been here about a month earlier.

    No one had seen him come or go then and if they had, there would have been nothing unusual to alert them.

    Neville crossed to the boxes and began pulling them away, dismantling the makeshift rampart with gleeful speed.

    As each discarded box hit the floor it sent up fresh clouds of dust, motes twisting lazily in the rancid air.

    The object hidden behind the boxes was covered by a tarpaulin.

    Taking hold of one corner, Neville tugged hard on the canvas.

    More dust billowed upwards but Neville merely smiled.

    The Harley Davidson's sleek bodywork gleamed, even inside the dismal confines of the lock-up.

    Neville placed one hand reverentially on the petrol tank, feeling the cold metal against his palm.

    The FLTC Tour Glide was dark blue, the chrome exhaust pipes even more striking against the bodywork. The entire machine, capable of over a hundred miles an hour and weighing just under a ton, seemed to give off an aura of power and Neville looked at it admiringly for a second longer before flipping open the top box.

    From inside he pulled out a pair of thick leather trousers, which he hastily slid over his jeans before fastening himself into the matching jacket.

    The folds of the jacket easily hid the.459 automatic which he wore beneath one arm and the.357 revolver strapped to his right side in another shoulder holster.

    The Steyr he slid into the top box.

    The leather creaked loudly inside the stillness of the deserted building as Neville moved about, finally lifting the black helmet into view.

    It glistened like a black skull.

    With it wedged firmly on to his head, only his eyes were visible through the visor.

    Neville swung his leg over the Harley, settled himself on-to the seat and flicked the ignition switch.

    The four-stroke V-twin l340cc engine roared into life, the sound reverberating inside the lock-up.

    He twisted the throttle, exhaust fumes spewing from the tail pipes, the roar building steadily.

    Five thousand rpm.

    Like a fucking dream.

    Beneath the helmet, Neville was laughing.

10.47 A.M.

    Doyle thought about knocking but finally he just eased the handle down and peered around the door.

    At first Julie Neville didn't see him and Doyle stood looking at her while she sat by the small bed pushed up against one wall.

    She was gently stroking her daughter's forehead, gazing at her as she slept.

    The room was tiny. Apart from the bed, it contained only a small wooden cabinet, a couple of plastic chairs and a small table. A cold cup of tea was perched on the table top.

    Doyle glanced around the room, taking in the posters warning of meningitis, AIDS and smoking.

    Leamington Park Hospital. Even in this side room he could smell that all too familiar antiseptic smell he associated so strongly with these places of healing.

    He hated that smell.

    Christ alone knew it was familiar enough.

    Doyle had seen the inside of enough hospitals in his time.

    A couple of them he'd thought he'd never leave.

    He looked at Julie again.

    She ran a hand through her long blonde hair and turned slightly, as if suddenly aware of his presence.

    She nodded towards her sleeping daughter and pressed a finger to her lips, indicating that Doyle should remain silent.

    'We need to talk,' he said softly, motioning towards the corridor beyond.

    Julie got to her feet, took one more look at Lisa, then followed him out.

    'Is she OK?' the counter terrorist asked as Julie closed the door behind her.

    'They gave her something to help her sleep.'

    'And what about you? How do you feel?'

    She smiled thinly. 'Well, considering my husband tried to blow me up, demolished my house with explosives and nearly killed half a dozen coppers too, I'm fine.'

    Doyle fixed her in his gaze.

    She was pretty.

    Like Georgie?

    He offered her a cigarette.

    'You're not supposed to smoke in here,' she told him, glancing around as if afraid someone would see them.

    Doyle held the packet of Marlboros steady and she finally took one.

    He jammed one between his lips then lit both with his lighter.

    Julie took a long drag. 'I needed that,' she said, smiling.

    It was her turn to run appraising eyes over him. The cowboy boots, the worn leather jacket. The long hair.

    He needed a shave, she mused.

    'I've already spoken to the police,' she said finally. 'They questioned me in the ambulance on the way here.'

    'I'm not the police. I'm with the Counter Terrorist Unit.'

    'What's that got to do with me?'

    'Fuck all. But it's got a lot to do with your old man.' He raised his eyebrows. 'Want a coffee? There's a machine round the corner.'

    'I shouldn't leave Lisa.'

    'She'll be OK,' he reassured her. 'We can come straight back.'

    Julie hesitated a moment longer then nodded. They began walking.

10.51 A.M.

    'Where did they find it?' asked DI Calloway, barely looking up from his cup of tea.

    DS Colin Mason replaced the phone and exhaled deeply.

    'About three miles from here,' he said. 'Dark blue Montego. It was definitely the car.'

    'You didn't expect him to stay in it, did you?'

    Calloway sipped at his tea. 'What the fuck is his game?' the DI mused. 'If Doyle's right about that explosion-'

    'If he is,' Mason snapped.

    'He seems to know what he's talking about.'

    'Cocky bastard.'

    Calloway leaned back in his seat and glanced at his companion. 'It's a pretty safe bet Neville's not on foot now.'

    'Do you reckon he had another car hidden somewhere nearby?'

    'Well, he wouldn't be walking the streets with the gear he's carrying, would he?'

    'His missus wasn't much help,' Mason said dismissively.

    'We'll go back and talk to her again. I want to know what else Doyle thinks about this shit. Maybe he's got some idea what Neville's next move will be.'

    'I don't trust him.'

    'Why not? He's on our side, you know.'

    'I'm beginning to wonder,' Mason grunted. 'Where the fuck did he get to anyway? I reckon he knows more than he's telling.'

    Calloway sipped at his tea. 'Maybe we ought to do some checking up on Doyle too,' he murmured.

    Mason smiled crookedly. 'If he is involved with Neville then I want the bastard myself.'

    Calloway raised his eyebrows. 'Good luck,' he muttered, reaching for the phone.

***

    Julie Neville watched as Doyle fed coins into the vending machine, waiting as a plastic cup dropped into view and watery brown fluid dribbled in. According to the selection he'd pressed, it was meant to be coffee.

    She took the cup from him and sipped at it, wincing as it burned her lips.

    Doyle got his own drink and motioned towards the plastic seats close to the machine.

    From the window at the end of the corridor, Julie could see out over the hospital car park. An ambulance was pulling in to Casualty, blue lights spinning furiously. She turned away as she saw the uniformed attendants lifting a stretcher from the rear of the emergency vehicle.

    'I don't know what you want to hear,' she said to Doyle who was lighting up another cigarette.

    'The truth would help,' Doyle told her.

    'About Bob? I'm not even sure I know that myself. Why are you so interested in him?'

    Doyle ignored the question, sipping his coffee instead.

    'Did he contact you very often when he was away? Letters, phone calls, that kind of thing?'

    'In the beginning,' she said, smiling wanly 'He used to write two or three times a week. But it's always like that at the beginning, isn't it?'

    Doyle kept his gaze on her.

    'When he came home on leave he used to bring me flowers,' Julie mused. 'Every time he'd bring something. Flowers, chocolates or earrings. I must have more earrings than any other woman in London. And they were always the same design. Silver hoops. Bob never did have much imagination.' Her tone had darkened slightly.

    'What about recently?'

    'About two years ago the letters started to dry up. He'd write once every couple of months, ring if I was lucky. He even stopped coming home on leave.'

    'Do you know where he went?'

    'He could have had another woman for all I knew.'

    'Do you think he did?'

    She regarded him warily. 'Does it matter?' she snapped.

    'As a matter of fact it does.'

    'What's he done? I mean, I know about this morning, but there's something else, isn't there?'

    'Do you think he had another woman?' Doyle persisted.

    'He found it hard enough to make friends, let alone relationships.'

    'He made one with you.'

    'If you want to call it that.'

    'You were married, you've got a child. You must have loved him.'

    'Once.' She took a swig of her coffee.

    'January twenty-seventh, ten years ago,' Doyle said.

    'How do you know?'

    'You'd be surprised what I know. It goes with the job.'

    'Well, if you know so much, why the questions?'

    'There are still some gaps. You might be able to help me fill them.'

    'You know so much about me. I don't know anything about you.'

    'There's no need for you to,' he said, a thin smile touching his lips.

    'I'm nosy,' Julie retorted, running her hand through her hair.

    Christ, she reminded him of Georgie when she did that.

    'I know your name and I know you want to find my husband, that's it.'

    'That's all you need to know.'

    She reached out and looked at his left hand, lifting it slightly. 'No wedding ring.'

    Doyle pulled his hand away gently. 'No wife.'

    'Girlfriend?'

    He shook his head.

    'There must be someone, Doyle.'

    'There've been a few. I don't keep a bloody scorecard.'

    'Anyone special?'

    'There was. She died.'

    'I'm sorry. When?'

    'Seven, eight years ago now.'

    
Nine. Ten. A fucking eternity.

    'How did it happen?' Julie's voice was soft.

    'She was shot,' he said flatly.

    
Shot to fucking pieces.

    'We were working together at the time,' he continued. 'There isn't a day goes by that I don't think about her.' He turned his gaze on Julie and she found herself looking deeply into his grey eyes.

    'What was her name?'

    'Georgie. Georgina.' A faint smile played across his lips then vanished hurriedly.

    
What the fuck are you doing?

    Doyle drained the contents of his cup and tossed it into the waste bin.

    
What are you going to do? Tell her your fucking life story? Get a grip.

    'You said your husband didn't have many friends,' Doyle began, angry with himself.

    
Don't let the mask slip.

    'The ones he did have, did you know them? Meet them?'

    Julie hesitated a moment. 'Most of them were in the paras with him, I only met a couple.'

    'Names?'

    'It was a while ago.'

    'Try to think, it might be important.'

    'He was really close to a guy called Baxter. Ken Baxter.'

    'Any details about him you can remember?'

    'They were in the paras together. I met him a few times when he came home with Bob. They were in the same company.'

    'Baxter,' Doyle muttered. 'That'll do for a start.'

    He got to his feet. 'I'll walk back round with you.' He nodded towards the other end of the corridor.

    Julie got to her feet and they set off for the room where Lisa still slept.

    'What'll happen to him if he's caught?'

    'When he's caught,' Doyle corrected her. 'It depends who gets to him first. The police or me.'