Deadline (13 page)

'Do you know her?'

'No, but I should be able to find out.'

Tina was a good liar. She knew how to wear a
poker face.

'Good.'

Leon Daroyce smiled properly now, and Tina
had to fight to maintain her poker face as she saw
his teeth for the first time. There was enough gold
in there to stock a small jewellery shop, but it
wasn't that which grabbed her attention. It was
the fact that every single one of them was filed to
a razor-sharp point. Daroyce's mouth was a lethal
weapon, those jaws easily capable of murder.

Seeing her reaction, he chuckled – a strange,
high-pitched little sound that made her skin
crawl. 'You like them, baby? The girls always get
a little frightened at first, but when they see what
I can do with them, they always come back for
more.' He waggled his tongue at her, running it
along the points of his fangs.

Tina needed to get out of there. The room
suddenly felt hot and claustrophobic. She picked
up the envelope, slipped the photo back inside,
and stood up.

'Let me get on with things, then.'

'Haven't you forgotten something?' He
motioned towards the wad of money.

'I can't take it now. I haven't done anything yet.'

'But you're going to, though. Aren't you?'

'If we find him, yes.'

'You look thirsty,' he said, changing the subject.
'Do you want a drink?'

Tina took a sharp breath. 'Thanks, but I need to
get going.'

'Sit down there for a couple of seconds. I want
to show you something. Go on,' he said, waving
towards the seat, 'it won't take long.'

Reluctantly, she did as requested.

'What is it?'

'Power,' he whispered.

'Sorry?'

He mouthed the word again, then turned
towards the door. 'Woman, bring me water!' he
called out, and a few seconds later a skinny
mixed-race girl, no more than eighteen, with
unkempt hair, hurried into the room. She was
dressed in a dirty white T-shirt and a black thong,
and Tina noticed that there were bruises on her
bare legs. Avoiding their eyes, the girl put a small
bottle of Evian on the table in front of Daroyce and
quickly turned to go, but his hand whipped out
like a flailing cord and grabbed her wrist in a
tight, visibly painful grip. The girl looked scared,
but didn't say anything.

'You know what power is, Miss Boyd?' asked
Daroyce, tightening his grip on the girl's wrist,
making her wince. 'Power is when you're
respected; when you're feared; when people will
do anything you tell them. Let me show you what
I mean.' He looked up at the girl with gleaming
eyes. 'You're mine, aren't you, woman?'

'Yes,' she whispered.

'You're hurting her, Mr Daroyce. Why don't
you let go of her arm?'

He ignored her, pulling the girl towards him.

'Now, get on your knees.'

The girl knelt down.

'You don't have to do this,' said Tina firmly,
horrified by what might be about to take place. 'I
believe you.'

Daroyce backhanded the girl across the face.
Hard. The slap rebounded around the room. Tina
flinched as the girl's head snapped sideways
under the blow before quickly righting itself. She
didn't cry out or make a sound. Instead, she
remained kneeling, staring straight ahead, her jaw
quivering as it tightened against the pain. The fear
had gone from her eyes now, replaced by the
submissiveness of the defeated.

Tina stood up and addressed the girl. 'I'm a
police officer,' she said, pulling out her warrant
card and showing it to her. 'You can leave with me
now. You don't have to stay here.' She didn't add
that the girl could also press charges if she wanted
to; they could talk about that later, when they
were in a safer location.

The girl said nothing, continued to stare
straight ahead.

'Come on,' said Tina, putting out a hand. 'You
can come with me now.'

Daroyce chuckled. 'Tell her to fuck off, woman.'

This time the girl looked at Tina. There was a
red mark covering the entire left side of her face,
several small cuts on the cheek where Daroyce's
rings had made contact.

'Fuck off,' she said, without feeling or passion.

'Please. I can take you home.'

But Tina knew it was no use. Even the girl's
eyes were blank.

Daroyce's smile grew wider, the teeth showing,
as he saw Tina's frustration. Then it disappeared
altogether. 'Get out, woman!' he snapped, and
immediately the girl got to her feet and hurried
out of the door.

Tina shoved the warrant card back in her
pocket. 'I'm leaving, and I want to take her with
me.'

'You don't get it, do you, Miss Boyd? She won't
go with you. Not in a thousand years. Because
she's mine.'

'Slavery was outlawed in this country two
hundred years ago, Daroyce. Maybe you missed
the bicentennial celebrations.'

'She can leave if she wants to, Boyd. But she
won't. Because she owes me, and she's paying her
debt.'

'I don't care about—'

'Enough!' His hand slammed down on the
table, silencing her. 'The reason I showed you that
is so you know I don't fuck about.'

'You're a bully.'

He wagged a finger at her. 'No, I'm no bully.
Bullies only pick on the weak. I'm prepared to
take on everyone. And I'm also a man of my word,
so when people break theirs, I take great offence.
And I make them suffer. That little whore fucked
me about once, and now she's paying for her
stupidity. Just like Pat Phelan will pay for it when
I get hold of him.' He stood up, and even though
at full height he was still shorter than Tina, he
radiated the kind of cruel, low menace that would
have intimidated men twice his height. 'Now
you've made me a promise as well,' he said
quietly, making a point of showing his teeth as he
spoke. 'So, if you find the whereabouts of Phelan,
I want to hear about it. Otherwise, Miss Boyd, my
people will come for you too. Do you understand?'

Again, Tina held his gaze, but she was finding it
hard to keep her nerve. She was scared, and he
knew it.

'I understand,' she answered.

'Good. Would you like my men to drop you off
where they picked you up?'

She shook her head. 'No, it's OK. I'll walk.'

He moved aside to let her pass, and she caught
a subtle waft of expensive and very nice cologne
that almost made her pause to take in more of it,
until she thought about what he'd just done.

'Watch yourself out there,' he whispered. 'The
streets round here can be very, very dangerous.'

She ignored him and kept walking, out into the
narrow hallway. The big black guy in the shades
materialized from a room ahead of her, unlocking
the front door for her in silence. She couldn't see
the girl anywhere, but if she was honest with
herself, she wasn't looking too hard, so eager was
she just to get out of there.

There were all kinds of things Tina could have
taken from the conversation she'd just had: the
large amount of cash Pat Phelan owed Daroyce;
the way he'd recently asked Daroyce for just a few
more days to pay the money; the fact that he was
having an affair with his wife's business partner
. . . But she couldn't seem to concentrate on any of
them as she walked rapidly through the back
streets, going in no particular direction, haunted
by the face of an anonymous girl who got down
on her knees and waited to be beaten by a thug –
a man who'd just threatened to turn on Tina as
well if she didn't do what she was told.

She felt the pressure building inside her head.
She was a tough person. She'd had to be to put up
with what life had thrown at her these past few
years, but occasionally her strength wavered, and
it was wavering now.

She needed a drink. Badly.

There was a pub up ahead, a spit-and-sawdust
type of place with a chalkboard outside advertising
football games on Sky, and a couple of
potbellied builders standing by the door smoking.
The door was open. It seemed to welcome her.

She knew she shouldn't do it. Knew what one
drink meant. But it was hard. So damn hard. She
felt a desperate need to put a glass to her lips, to
soften the blows that had rained down on her this
afternoon – no, shit, that had rained down on her
over the last four years.

You never drink on duty
, she told herself.
Never.
You work hard, you do well. They might not all like
you, but they respect you. If you weaken now, you're
finished.

A picture of her dead lover walked uninvited
into her mind's eye. John Gallan. He'd been a
good man, a nicer, better person than she could
ever be. He'd loved her; he'd said so many times
and she'd believed him. John wasn't the sort to lie.
Part of her had loved him back, too. Thought that
maybe it could come to something. And then he
died.

And then he fucking died.

She walked inside the pub, ignoring the slimy
look she got from the jaundiced old codger sitting
at the bar, and ordered a double gin, no ice,
ignoring the voice inside her head that screamed
for her not to do it. The decision had been made.

She drank it down in one.

'Bad day?' asked the barman, a gangly teenager
with a haystack's worth of red hair.

'Fucking fantastic,' she said, and ordered
another.

She put a tenner on the bar and drank the gin
slower this time, savouring the fiery taste as the
alcohol slipped down her throat. The kick was
instantaneous, and she felt the familiar lightheadedness
come on, knowing that if she had another,
that would be it. There'd be no going back. The
work day would be written off. The leads she'd
gained, leads that could help save a teenage girl
from death, wouldn't emerge until she'd sobered
up. Tina wasn't the sort who could work drunk.
She became clumsy and lethargic. Her colleagues
would notice it straight away, and her guilty little
secret, the one she'd carried for so long, would
suddenly be out there for all to see. And she
couldn't have that. Tina had her pride. She
suffered, but she suffered alone. She didn't want
pity, she didn't want help, and right now, she
really didn't want to be off this case.

Fuck Leon Daroyce. He wasn't going to beat
her. She finished the drink and banged the glass
on the bar harder than she'd planned before
picking up her change and heading back out into
the sunlight.

It was time to get back to work.

'I've got authorization for the money,' said Big
Barry grimly, looking across his desk at Bolt. 'It
wasn't easy. One or two of the top people
favoured calling in the negotiators. It took some
persuading that not letting on about our involvement
was the best course of action. And as you
can imagine, no one wanted the responsibility of
signing off half a million pounds.'

Bolt nodded. It had just turned four o'clock and
he was back in Big Barry's office. Despite the
sunny day, the heating was on full blast and the
room felt hot and airless. Bolt had an empty
feeling in his stomach. He'd tried to eat on the
way back to HQ, stopping off at a Pret a Manger
to buy a sandwich and a bottle of juice, but two
bites and the juice was all he'd managed. The
tension running through him made it hard to sit
still, let alone concentrate on what Barry was saying.

'If we lose this money,' Barry continued, 'both
you and I are going to be in serious trouble. We
really can't afford to screw this one up, old mate.'

Bolt nodded again, didn't say anything.

'We'll be providing the bag containing the
ransom, and I'm going to have two separate
tracking devices sewn into the material where
there's absolutely no chance they'll be found.

We'll also have two more trackers buried right in
among the money, just in case they change bags.
Obviously, though, these things aren't foolproof.
They can lose their signal. We all know that. So
we're going to need major surveillance back-up. I
suggest two ground teams. One will follow Mrs
Devern, the other will be sent to stake out the
rendezvous as soon as the kidnappers confirm
where it's going to be, so we have complete
coverage of the area and the ransom itself. Then,
as a final layer of surveillance, I want a helicopter
on standby to take over the pursuit of the money
so we make absolutely sure it doesn't disappear
on us. Then it's simply a matter of following it
to its destination, and that's the moment we
bring in the negotiators and try to end things
peacefully. The girl gets released, the perpetrators
get nicked, and the money lands safely back in
our hands.'

He paused, looking pleased with himself.

'What do you think?'

'I think,' said Bolt, trying desperately to be
objective, 'that it's very risky.'

Barry looked mildly irritated. He didn't quite
roll his eyes but the movement wasn't far off. 'Of
course it's risky. This is a professional kidnapping
we're dealing with, Mike. It's the type of op that's
always risky. It was risky this morning, and you
were arguing for it then.'

But this morning there hadn't been the possibility
that 'the girl', as Barry had described her so
dispassionately, was his daughter. On the way
over, Bolt had thought about laying things on the
line. Admitting everything. But he'd quickly
dismissed this as a bad move. With such a huge
personal involvement, Barry would have had no
choice but to remove him from the case and there
was no way he was going to allow that to happen.

'I've had time to think,' Bolt said. 'These people
haven't put a foot wrong so far. If we don't get this
exactly right, then they're likely to kill her.'

'Then we get it right,' said Barry firmly.

'You don't think we might be better off bringing
in the negotiators? It's possible that if they realize
we're on to them, they might cut their losses and
let Emma go.'

'And it's also possible that they might not. You
said that yourself.'

Bolt exhaled. 'I guess that's true.'

Barry frowned. 'Are you all right, old mate?'

Bolt nodded. 'Yeah, I'm fine.' But he was
sweating, and his shirt felt clammy against his skin.

'We've made the decision now,' Barry
continued. 'There's no point going back on it.
SOCA needs a nice high-profile success. If we get
this right – and, make no mistake about it, we will,
because we're going to plan it properly – then it's
going to look extremely good on the organization,
and on us in particular. We don't often get much
in the way of praise. Let's make sure we get some
this time.'

'OK, but I don't like the idea of the helicopter.

The kidnappers get so much as a sniff of it, they're
going to panic.'

'We'll keep it well away from whatever
rendezvous they choose, don't worry. And it'll
only be used as a back-up.'

Bolt wasn't convinced, but he didn't argue.
There was no point. Barry had made up his mind
about how they were going to play it. In fact, he'd
made up his mind before the meeting had even
started, which made Bolt feel that his presence
was largely irrelevant.

'How's Mrs Devern?' asked Barry.

'She's holding up.'

'Hertfordshire CID still aren't entirely happy
with her story.'

Bolt wiped sweat from his forehead with the
back of his hand. 'Why not?'

'Well, their officers did find her covered in
blood having just left the scene of the violent
murder of her former lover.' Barry allowed
himself a thin smile. 'You have to admit it's more
than a little suspicious.'

Bolt felt like slapping that smile off his boss's
face. For the first time in his life he suddenly had
an insight into what it must be like to be a victim
of crime – the lonely frustration of dealing with
officials who were never going to care enough to
deal with your plight.

'I'm sure they don't like her story,' he said,
trying to keep his voice as calm as possible, 'but
her child's definitely been kidnapped. I saw her
on the video the kidnappers sent just three hours
ago. And the people holding her are definitely
after a ransom. So, unless Mrs Devern somehow
set this all up herself, and is deliberately putting
her daughter through a huge trauma, then we've
got to accept that her story's true.'

Barry waited for Bolt to finish. 'I agree with
you,' he said eventually, 'but I do get the idea with
Mrs Devern that all is not what it seems. I think
we need to watch her.'

Bolt nodded. 'Fair point.'

His boss was right. Andrea was a frighteningly
enigmatic woman. She was also a manipulator, as
Jimmy Galante had found to his cost, and Bolt
himself was finding now.

There was a knock on the door, and one of the
newer team members, Kris Obanje, a tall, good looking
black man with a fondness for amateur
dramatics, appeared.

'There's been a development,' he said with a
typical flourish.

Bolt felt his heart race and he clenched his teeth.
What the hell kind of development?

'We've just heard back from the phone provider
who runs the network Emma Devern and Pat
Phelan both use,' he continued, his voice a rich
baritone that seemed to resound around the room.
'Phelan's phone was switched off at 4.47 p.m. on
Tuesday afternoon in the car park of the dental
practice. According to the receptionist, this would
have been while Emma was in with the dentist.
Emma's own mobile was turned off twelve
minutes later at 4.59, a few hundred metres from
the surgery, and on the same street. It would have
been just after she'd left.'

'That solves the mystery of where they
snatched her from, then,' said Barry. 'It must have
been in the car park. Shows our kidnappers are
willing to take risks.'

'It also shows how technology savvy they are,'
said Bolt, 'getting rid of the mobiles straight
away.'

'That's the media for you,' snorted Barry. 'They
publicize all the ways we can track people. It's no
wonder the criminals catch on. We're going to
have to interview everyone who was at the
surgery that afternoon, see if anyone saw
anything.'

'We've also managed to trace the route the car
took away from the surgery,' Obanje told them.
He unfolded a sheet of A3 paper and laid it on the
desk between the two men. It was a photocopied
large-scale map of north London, with a curving
line of red crosses drawn on it in marker pen
running from Hampstead in the south to Barnet
and the M25 in the north. 'Here's the surgery,' he
said, pointing at the bottom-most cross. 'Here's
where Emma's phone was turned off. And here's
where they went afterwards.' He traced a finger
along the line of crosses, stopping at one in the
middle. 'We got a good CCTV shot of Phelan's car
here at 5.14.' He unfolded a second piece of paper,
this time showing an overhead black and white
camera shot of a Range Rover. 'It looks like it
might be Phelan driving, and it looks like it might
be an adolescent in the seat next to him. We've
sent the image over for enhancement. We should
have the results back by tomorrow.'

'We're going to have to,' said Bolt, 'because
after tomorrow they'll be irrelevant.'

He looked more carefully at the photo as
Obanje moved his finger away. The figure in the
passenger seat – the girl who might be Bolt's
daughter – was a lot smaller than the man next to
her, and she had her head turned to one side,
making a positive ID impossible. But it was
Emma. There was no doubt about that, and he felt
a twinge of emotion as he stared at her image.

'If this is Phelan driving, and he's involved in
the kidnap, why on earth did he bother taking her
to the dentist's first?' demanded Barry.

'Look at this,' said Obanje, producing a third
piece of paper. It was another overhead camera
shot but this time it was a close-up taken of the
rear of the Range Rover. 'This is from another
camera on the same street, two minutes later at
5.16. You have to look closely.'

Bolt and Barry both leaned forward so their
heads were almost touching. It wasn't difficult to
see what Obanje was referring to. There was no
mistaking the figure in the back seat, directly
behind the driver.

'So there was someone else involved in the
initial snatch,' said Barry. 'He gets in the car,
presumably at the dental surgery, and either
forces Phelan to drive, or it's possible that
Phelan's involved, and this gentleman's just
helping him.' He turned to Obanje. 'Have we got
any better shots than this?'

Obanje shook his head. 'No, this is the best
we've got at the moment. And after the car crosses
the M25 on the A1 at 5.49, we lose it altogether.
Hendon haven't got a single sighting of it after
that.'

'So, Phelan's Range Rover could have been
abandoned round here somewhere,' said Bolt,
prodding the map near to the final cross.

'Could have been, but it's also possible that if
they turned off the A1 and took back roads, they
could have driven miles without being picked up
by cameras. I'll keep on to Hendon, see if we can
come up with any more sightings, but I wouldn't
hold out much hope.'

'We'll also have a word with the local police, see
if they've got any reports of the car being abandoned
on their manor,' Barry said. He turned to
Obanje. 'Thanks, Kris. Keep up with the good
work.'

'It's coming along,' he said. 'She's a sweet looking
kid. We all want to get her back.' He
picked up the papers and left the room, the other
two watching him go.

The tightness in Bolt's stomach had eased just a
little. If the man in the back of the Range Rover
had got in the car in the dentist's car park, then it
was possible he might have been seen by a passerby.
It wasn't much, but it represented a chink of
hope.

He stood up. He needed to get out of Barry's
stifling office. 'I'll get a couple of the team to go
down to the surgery,' he said, and went outside.

But he didn't go back to the incident room
straight away. Instead, he walked down the
empty corridor and into the toilet. He splashed
water on his face and stared at himself in the
mirror.

He wasn't a bad-looking guy. His hair was still
more blond than grey, although turning faster
than he'd have liked, and he had a long, lean face
with well-defined features and the kind of strong
jaw that would stand up in a fight. Even the scars
– an S-shaped slash on his chin, two small ragged
lumps on his left cheek – added to rather than
detracted from his appearance, and their effect
was softened by his eyes. 'Laughing eyes' Mikaela
used to call them. They were a bright, lively blue,
and shone with a friendly and disarming interest.

But today they were duller, more brooding, and
Bolt could see that he looked haggard and
stressed. All his adult life he'd had to cope with
pressure. The pressure of being a young man in
uniform policing the streets of modern-day
London had given way to the pressure of chasing
some of the capital's most dangerous armed
robbers during the ten years he'd spent with the
Flying Squad. He'd been involved in some
extremely dangerous operations, but the
difference was that in those days he'd been part of
a team, sharing the tension with a group of men
and women who knew exactly how he was
feeling, their support always providing a measure
of comfort. Today he was completely on his own
as the investigation into the kidnapping of the girl
who could be his daughter went on around him.

He'd been operating pretty much on autopilot
all afternoon, constantly turning over the various
scenarios in his head, thinking back to those long ago
days when he and Andrea had had their brief
and passionate affair, trying to work out whether
he really was the father of someone he'd never
met, and whose first fourteen years he'd
completely missed. Wondering now whether he
was ever going to meet her, or whether he'd be the
man staring down at her dead, broken body.
Every time this last thought took hold, he felt
himself wince and his heart pound faster.

He forced himself to concentrate on the task at
hand. They desperately needed a break, a single
mistake by the kidnappers that would provide
them with a clue to their identity, and hopefully
their whereabouts. But if no one had seen the
kidnapper get into Pat Phelan's Range Rover in
the surgery car park, it was looking less and less
likely that they were going to get one.