Deadline (27 page)

Whatever doubts Bolt had about Pat Phelan's
involvement in the kidnap of his stepdaughter,
the fact remained that they were largely irrelevant.
He was off the case and, for the moment at
least, off the team.

It had been a long night. He'd been at Enfield
Nick until the early hours, giving his statement to
two of the local CID and taking their questions.
He'd stuck to the story he'd told Steve Evans
about why he'd been on the scene in the first
place, but made sure he told the truth about
everything else, and it soon became clear that
they were treating him as a witness rather than
a suspect in the murder of Scott Ridgers.
Formalities complete, he'd eventually made it
home a little after three a.m. and collapsed,
exhausted, into his bed straight away, able to relax
for the first time in close to forty-eight hours.

He slept late. It was gone eleven when he
finally rose from his bed, cleaned himself up, and
put on a fresh pot of coffee. There was a message
on his mobile from Mo telling him that Matt
Turner was still on the critical list but that the
operation had been a success and the doctors were
confident he was going to pull through. He also
added that Emma had been debriefed and had
confirmed Bolt's version of events, then finished
by wishing his boss luck and hoping he'd be back
on duty soon. He sounded a little contrite, and
Bolt guessed that this was his apology for the way
he'd been the previous day.

It was good news about Turner. He'd go down
the hospital to visit him as soon as he was well
enough to be seen.

As he poured the coffee and made himself a
couple of slices of toast, his thoughts turned to
Emma. It was a strange feeling knowing that
he had a daughter who for fourteen years had
grown up only a few miles away. But he felt
happy about it, and hopeful too. He wanted
to become a part of her life now, although he
knew that this would have to wait a while, at
least until she'd recovered from the worst of her
ordeal.

But at the very least he needed to know how
she was getting on, and when he'd finished his
toast he called Andrea's landline. Marie the
liaison officer answered. She sounded tired, but
brightened a little when she recognized Bolt's
voice.

'It's great news that we've got Emma back,' she
said. 'Andrea's ecstatic, as you can imagine.'

'Is Andrea there?' he asked.

'Yes, they're both here. Do you want to speak to
her?'

'Please. Just tell her it's a quick courtesy call.

I'm sure she's busy.'

'I'll go and find her. Hold on.'

Marie clearly didn't know about his suspension.
In fact, it didn't seem that she'd been told
much, which under the circumstances was probably
no bad thing.

A few seconds later he heard the receiver being
picked up. But it wasn't Andrea. It was Marie
again.

'She says she's very busy at the moment, Mr
Bolt. Can she call you back later?'

He tried to keep the disappointment out of his
voice. 'No problem. I'll wait to hear from her. But
Emma's fine, yeah?'

'She's asleep at the moment, but yes, she's
bearing up well, although the doctors say she's
quite dehydrated.'

He wanted to ask something else, to keep the
conversation going in the hope that Andrea
would change her mind and take the call, but he
wasn't sure what, so reluctantly he said his goodbyes
and hung up.

He turned on the TV and found Sky News. The
main report was on the failed ransom drop.
The man shot dead by police had not been
named, but the young father he'd fatally stabbed
had been identified as thirty-five-year-old
Anthony Randolph of Waltham Abbey, Essex. A
photo of him on his wedding day flashed up on
the screen, followed by a photo of Matt Turner
looking particularly deadpan, as the reporter
described him as fighting for his life in intensive
care. A camera panned round a largely empty
Tottenham High Road, lined with strips of scene-of-crime
tape, as the report continued, but it was
clear that information was scarce, and there was
no mention of the kidnapping, or of the separate
but linked death of Scott Ridgers.

Bolt felt resentful that he was no longer
involved in an investigation he'd done so much to
break. He wondered whether Phelan had shown
up yet, and briefly contemplated phoning Tina,
but decided against it. She'd done more than
enough for him already, and he didn't want to lose
her respect by pushing her further.

Instead, he finished his coffee and got dressed,
knowing that he had to do something, anything,
to ease his frustration.

Which was when he had an idea. Outside, the
sun was shining and it looked like it was going
to be another beautiful day. He grabbed his
shoes and looked at his watch. Five minutes to
midday.

It was time to catch up with some old friends.

When Tina Boyd pressed the buzzer on Andrea's
security gate at just after 2.30 p.m. she'd already
done a seven-hour day and was finally on her way
home, albeit in a slightly indirect way. She'd
already spent more than two hours there that
morning with Mo talking to Emma, listening to
her harrowing account of the past few days while
her mother sat beside her, holding her hand. Tina
had been impressed by how brave and lucid
Emma was in the interview, answering all their
questions quietly and carefully, and although
she'd looked tired, and thinner than she did in the
photos that lined the house, her overall
demeanour suggested that the damage she'd
suffered wasn't irreversible. It was too early to say
for sure, and Tina was no psychologist, but she'd
come away feeling positive, and also proud of her
boss, who according to Emma's testimony had
saved her life and almost lost his own in the
process. Emma had asked where Bolt was, saying
she'd like to thank him properly, and Tina had
told her that she was sure they'd get to meet soon,
looking at Andrea as she did so.

Andrea had looked away.

Andrea's voice came on the line now, far
brighter and chirpier now that she'd got her
daughter back, but it immediately lost its lustre
when Tina introduced herself.

'Oh, back again?' she said wearily. 'I'm afraid
Emma's asleep at the moment, and I don't want
her disturbed.'

'That's OK. It's you I've come to see. Can I come
in?'

Andrea buzzed her through. She'd changed
since Tina had left earlier and was now wearing a
long T-shirt and a pair of khaki hotpants that
showed off shapely legs and freshly painted,
bright red toenails. The haggard, terrified woman
of the last couple of days had now almost
completely disappeared. It was quite a
transformation.

'I've sent the liaison officer away,' she said as
Tina stepped into the hallway. 'It's just me and
Emma now. Like it's always been. Any word on
Pat yet?'

'Nothing at the moment, I'm afraid.'

'God knows what's happened to him. I still
don't think he's involved, but if he is . . .' Her face
darkened momentarily but then returned to
normal as she pushed thoughts of her husband
aside. 'Do you have more questions for me, then?
Is that why you're here?'

'Shall we go through to the living room?'

'OK.'

Andrea stretched out the word, trying to gauge
from Tina's expression what this might be about.
Tina didn't give anything away, so Andrea led her
through, taking her usual position on the sofa.
Tina shut the door but remained standing.

'I wanted to ask you some questions about
Emma's father. Her real one.'

Andrea sighed loudly. 'God, do we have to? I
mean, is it important? I could do with a rest
myself, you know.'

'We need to discuss it now.'

'Don't take that sort of tone with me.'

'You said in your statement on Friday that
Emma's father was James Galante.'

'That's right.'

Tina pulled a folded sheet of paper from the
back pocket of her jeans, holding it out in front of
her.

'Do you know what it says on here?'

Andrea didn't say anything, but she was
looking less sure of herself.

'It says that Emma was adopted.'

Andrea swallowed.

'By you and your then husband, Mr William
Devern, in September 1994. When she was seventeen
months old. I got a copy of the birth
certificate from Somerset House this morning.'

'Christ. Keep your voice down. Emma doesn't
know.'

'OK. But it makes me wonder, Mrs Devern, how
many other things have you been lying about?'

Andrea reached for her cigarettes, which Tina
now recognized as a sure sign that she was feeling
stressed.

'It was only that I wanted Jimmy to help me and
I thought if I convinced him he was Emma's dad
then he'd never be able to say no.' She got up and
opened the French windows, lighting up and
blowing smoke out into the garden, her arms
folded in a defensive gesture. 'You'd have done
the same in my position, except you don't know
that, because you've never had kids. She may not
be my flesh and blood, but she's still my daughter.
I brought her up. No one else, because Billy was
dead within a year. Just me.' She blew out more
smoke and glared defiantly at Tina.

'When are you intending to tell Mike Bolt that
he's not Emma's father?'

The question made Andrea flinch.

'So, he told you about that, did he?'

'Only when he absolutely had to.'

'I'll tell him soon enough. When I've got my
head back together.'

'You almost destroyed him, Mrs Devern. He's
suspended from his job because of you, and it's
possible he'll lose it over this. The least you can do
is put him out of his misery.'

'I told you, I'll tell him soon.'

'No. Either you call him now, or I do. And I
really think it would be best if it came from you,
don't you?'

'Listen, Miss Boyd, you've got no idea what I've
been through in the last week. What I've done,
I've done to protect my daughter and help to get
her away from those animals and back with me
where she belongs, and I'm not going to make any
apologies for that.'

'He still needs to know,' Tina insisted. 'Today.'

Andrea unfolded her arms, softening her
stance.

'Can you tell him? Please? Say I'm very, very
sorry and that I will call him, I promise. It's
just . . .' She paused, and Tina could see that her
eyes were filling with tears. 'Not today.'

'OK. I'll call him outside.'

As she walked through the French windows,
Andrea stopped her with a hand on the arm.

'I do care for him, you know,' she said quietly, a
tear running down one cheek. 'A lot more than
you think.'

Tina nodded. She didn't believe a word of it.

She walked up to the end of the garden, well
out of earshot, and dialled Mike's number,
knowing that he was going to take this hard.

When he answered, he sounded in a good
mood and there was a buzz of conversation in the
background.

'Tina, how's it going?'

'Not bad. Where are you?'

'In a pub in Finchley. Relaxing with some old
Flying Squad buddies. I figure, I'm suspended, I
may as well enjoy myself. What can I do for you?'

The moment of truth. And straight away she
knew she couldn't do it. Not when he was
enjoying himself. It would just have to wait.

'I thought you might want a quick update on
things, but if you're out with your friends—'

'No, I'd like to hear what you've got.'

She gave him a summary of where the investigation
was, but there really wasn't a lot to say as
things were running down now. There was still no
sign of Pat Phelan. They'd put surveillance on
Isobel Wheeler's house in case he turned up there,
but that was pretty much it.

'And have you seen Emma?'

Tina stiffened. 'Yes, she's well. Back at home
now.'

'And Andrea?'

'She's fine too.'

'Thanks, Tina. I really appreciate you keeping
me in touch with things.'

'I'd want to be, if I was in your position.
Anyway, you'd better get back to your friends.'

She rang off, cursing herself for being such a
coward. Now she'd have to call him again later.

She sat down on the garden's loveseat and lit a
cigarette, in no hurry to go back inside. As she
basked in the mid-afternoon sunshine, she realized
with surprise that she was going to miss
Mike Bolt now that he was suspended. Things
had changed between them these past few days.
She'd seen a vulnerable side to him for the first
time, and she was flattered that he'd turned to her
when he needed help, seeing something beyond
the hard shell she surrounded herself with. She
hadn't had romance in a long time. It was over
three years since John had died. Since then there'd
been a couple of one-night stands and a brief
holiday fling in Thailand. But now she felt the first
hint of attraction, and it unnerved her.

She stubbed out the cigarette in the grass and
stood up slowly. It was time to go home.

But as she reached the French windows, she
stopped. Andrea was back on her sofa, but there
were two men in suits in the room with her whom
Tina recognized as detectives from the farm the
previous night. They were obviously trying to
keep their expressions as calm and inscrutable as
possible as they turned towards her, but there was
no escaping the excitement in them.

'We've got a new lead on Scott Ridgers' killer,'
said the younger of the two, a fresh-faced youth
with thinning hair and a spray of freckles. 'A big
one.'

The Coach and Horses was the pub where
Finchley Flying Squad members past and present
liked to drink. There were always a few old faces
in on a Sunday lunchtime, mainly the local guys,
but today was the first time in a long while that
Bolt had made it.

The lunchtime crowd was thinning out now as
Bolt came off the phone to Tina and returned to
the table where he'd been drinking for the last two
hours with today's Flying Squad contingent: Ron
'Scissors' Austin, silver-haired, still serving,
nearing retirement; Marvin 'Mad Dog' Bennett, a
huge black guy now working on the Met's
Operation Trident; Big Tim Pritchard, once the
squad's Romeo, but now a few stones above his
ideal weight courtesy of his desk job at Scotland
Yard; and the ever injury-prone Jack 'Dodger'
Doyle.

'Who was that, your girlfriend?' grinned
Scissors Austin as Bolt sat back down with his
drink.

'No such luck. Colleague.'

'You want to get yourself out more, pal,'
advised Jack Doyle before resuming his story,
which involved a long-ago one-night stand he'd
had with a female DCI from Hendon.

Bolt wasn't really listening to the story. His
mind was elsewhere. He wanted to talk to Emma
and had thought that Tina's call might have been
her or Andrea getting in touch. The fact that it
wasn't disappointed him. It had been good to
catch up and trade war stories from the good old
days, but now, as the conversation moved on to
sexual conquests, he decided it was probably time
to go.

Doyle finished his story of fumbled, drunken
lovemaking (which had resulted, somewhat
inevitably, in him falling over and twisting his
ankle so badly he'd been off work for three days)
with a flourish and plenty of illustrative hand
movements, amid much laughter. When he went
off to the toilet, Big Tim, not to be outdone, started
on a story of his own, involving a relationship
with a pretty uniformed PC from Finchley Nick.

'Tracey Bonham was her name. Anyone
remember her?'

'Yeah, I do,' said Scissors. 'Pretty little thing.
Red hair. Don't tell me she had a fling with an
ugly sod like you.'

Big Tim's seat creaked precariously as he leaned
back on it. 'Watch it, old man. That girl was in love
with me, I tell you. I liked her as well. We almost
got engaged at one point.'

'I never knew that,' said Scissors sceptically.
'Are you sure you didn't dream it?'

'I don't remember her at all,' said Mad Dog,
shaking his head.

Bolt swallowed the last of his pint. To be honest,
he didn't either.

'Well, I didn't bloody dream it, all right? We did
nearly get engaged, and I reckon we would have
done as well, but then she ends up running off
with some scuzzy little bastard who turns out to
be one of Dodger Doyle's snouts.'

Scissors looked mortified. 'Christ, she dumped
you for a snout?'

'All right, all right. Don't rub it in. He was one
of these real charmers, you know. The sort gullible
women go for.'

'What, like you, you mean?' chuckled Mad
Dog.

'No, not like me. I'm sophisticated and good hearted,
as well as being beautiful. He was just a
long-haired toe rag with a nice line in patter. But
he had things with a couple of the girls at Finchley
Nick. Then he got done for receiving a load of
hijacked hi-fis, after he started trying to flood the
market with them. He even sold one to Tracey.'

'Serious?'

'Yeah. She ended up leaving the force over it
eventually. Christ, what was his name now?' Big
Tim looked up and saw Doyle returning from the
toilet. 'What was his name, Jack? That snout of
yours a few years back. The one who got done
for all them hi-fis. Pat somebody or other,
wasn't it?'

'I've got it,' said Scissors, banging his empty
pint glass on the table. 'It was Pat Phelan. Right
long-haired nancy. He was one of yours, wasn't
he, Jack?'

'Christ, I can't remember that far back,' said
Doyle, re-taking his seat.

But as he spoke the words he glanced across at
Bolt and their eyes met. Bolt felt his fingers tighten
around his empty glass. Doyle looked away
quickly and picked up his pint, trying too hard to
appear natural.

Bolt stared at him, feeling adrenalin course
through his body. There was a news blackout. Pat
Phelan had not been mentioned at all in the
media. Yet Jack Doyle clearly knew of his relevance
to Bolt, which was why he'd instinctively
glanced his way.

Their eyes met again, and it was suddenly as if
everyone else in the room had melted away,
leaving just the two of them there, at opposite
ends of an empty, silent table.

Instincts. They shape so much of human behaviour.
And in those single, dark moments, every
instinct in Bolt's body told him that he was staring
at the man who'd telephoned Andrea at home and
in her car, and who one way or another had
masterminded the whole thing.