Deadline (28 page)

Jack Doyle drained his pint and stood up. 'Well,
boys, I've got to go. Things to do, people to see,
you know the score.'

He shook hands with the boys.

'I've got to go as well,' said Bolt, getting to his
feet.

'Don't fancy one more for the road, gents?'
asked Big Tim, looking disappointed at the
prospect of losing half his potential audience.

'No, sorry, I've had a long few days,' said Bolt,
doing his own rounds and having to hurry as he
followed Jack out of the pub.

'I'd give you a lift, Mike,' said Doyle, fumbling
for his car keys, 'but I'm going in the wrong direction.
See you soon, eh?'

He nodded briefly, a smile so tight on his face
that it looked like it had been fixed there with
botox, and made no attempt to shake hands as he
started walking up towards the car park at the
back of the pub.

Bolt kept pace alongside him.

'She was my daughter, Jack.'

Doyle looked at him with a puzzled expression.
'Who was?'

'Emma Devern. The girl whose kidnapping you
organized.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'You know exactly what I'm talking about. Why
did you target Andrea? Did Phelan get you in
on it?'

'Whoa, Mike. I think the stress of this kidnap
case you've been on's got to you. Why don't you
go home and get some rest? Because I promise
you, you're talking shit.'

He carried on walking, and once again Bolt kept
pace, even though he was experiencing the first
signs of doubt.

And then it struck him.

'You were off sick for the Lewisham job, weren't
you? The one where I shot Dean Hayes.'

'I'm not talking about this, Mike. Now fuck off.'

Doyle clicked off the central locking as they
reached his car, a silver Ford Mondeo, parked up
against a fence round the back of the pub and out
of sight of the front door.

'You were off sick, so you never knew about the
ambush until afterwards. That's right, isn't it?
Shit, Jack. I never had you down for corrupt, but
you were involved, weren't you? You were in
on it.'

Doyle's features hardened as he opened the
driver's door. 'You're pissing in the wind, Mike.

And you can keep pissing as long as you like,
because none of it's going to hit me.'

'There'll be evidence, Jack. You know it. I know
it. So, where's the half million? Under your bed?

Safe for a rainy day? We'll find it.'

Doyle shook his head. 'Well,
you
won't, will
you? You're suspended.'

And with that he got inside the car.

Bolt felt rage bubble up inside him. He looked
around. The car park was empty. He had to act.
Now.

'You think I'm going to let you drive away after
what you've done to my daughter?'

He strode round to the driver's door and
yanked it open.

'No, I don't,' said Doyle as Bolt went to grab
him. 'That's why I've got this.' There was a snub nosed
revolver with a scotch-taped handle in his
left hand, and it was pointing up at Bolt. 'Now,
step back from the car, nice and easy.'

'You won't shoot me here.'

'I wouldn't place a bet on that if I were you.'

The cold expression in Doyle's eyes told Bolt
that it was best to comply, and he took a step
backwards, realizing as he did so that he'd made
a serious miscalculation. What the hell was he
going to do now?

Doyle got out of the car, keeping the gun down
by his side and glancing briefly over Bolt's
shoulder to check that the car park was still clear.
Then he threw his car keys on the driver's seat.

'OK, Mike, you're driving. Get in or I'll put a
bullet in you right now.'

'Don't do this, Jack. It's over, can't you see that?'

'Get in.'

Bolt took a deep breath and complied, while
Jack got in the back. He pointed the gun through
the gap in the seats.

'All right, let's get moving.'

'Where are we going?'

'Just start driving and turn right out of here.'

Bolt started the car and pulled out, heading
slowly through the car park, hoping that one of
the Flying Squad boys would come out of the
front door and ask for a lift.

'Go on, get moving,' Doyle snapped, shoving
the gun in Bolt's ribs.

There was a big gap in the traffic and, knowing
he had no choice, he pulled out on to the Finchley
Road and started driving north, trying hard to
figure out his options. He was certain Doyle
wouldn't pull the trigger while he was driving,
and pretty sure he wouldn't even if he stopped
and jumped out – not in such a public place with
pedestrians and other traffic about – but pretty
sure wasn't good enough. Jack Doyle was both
a killer and a desperate man. It was a bad
combination.

It struck Bolt that Doyle was almost certainly
trying to work out his own options, and he
decided that his best policy was to distract him.
He needed to keep Doyle talking.

'Why the hell did you have to do this, Jack?' he
asked, his voice laced with disappointment.

'It's not like you think, and I didn't know she
was your daughter. I just wanted my money
back.'

'What do you mean?'

'That Lewisham job was going to be my retirement
fund. Instead, the whole thing went tits up
and almost cost me everything. If I hadn't got
Galante out of the country he'd have definitely
grassed me up. For years I never knew who'd
fucked things up for us. You never named your
source, remember?'

'Yeah, I remember.'

'Very chivalrous of you. Except the problem
was one day you did tell me.'

Bolt frowned. 'When?'

'Remember that fishing trip you and me went
on to Ireland a couple of years back, the last time
you got yourself suspended? Well, it was then. We
got pissed one night in that pub near Kilrush, the
one with the big log fire. I asked you about the job
then. I wasn't even that bothered about it. I just
wanted to know.'

'And I told you?' Bolt vaguely remembered
saying something now, but it had been an
extremely drunken night.

'Yeah, you told me it was that bitch Andrea
Devern. I didn't even know she was Galante's
squeeze at the time.' Doyle cleared his throat.
'Anyway, I looked into things and saw she'd done
very, very nicely for herself. Unlike me with a
divorce, kids I don't see, and a whore of an exwife
who's nicked all my money and half my
pension.'

Bolt didn't bother telling him that this was
hardly a reason for committing kidnap and
murder. Instead, he kept quiet, letting Doyle talk.
All the time pondering his options.

'And then I heard she'd married that piece of
dirt Pat Phelan. You know, I met up with him a
few months ago? I was going to sound him out
about getting involved, but the flash bastard
couldn't stop telling me how much money he had
now that he was married to a rich girl, really
rubbing it in. He laughed at me. You know that,
Mike? The bastard laughed at me. Well, he ain't
laughing now.'

'Where is he?'

'Not far away. I'm surprised you lot haven't
found him yet.'

He pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from
the sports jacket he was wearing, drew one out
and lit it.

'You know what gets me? The whole thing was
planned brilliantly. I really put effort into it. I let
Ridgers and his prison buddy, a toe rag called
Karl Roven, do all the hard work, and the idea
was they'd turn up back at the farm last night and
I'd take them both out. Bang bang, just like that.
Then with Pat Phelan disappeared off the face of
the earth, he'd end up getting the blame for
organizing it all.'

'What about Emma? What were you going to
do with her?'

'She was always going to get released. I'm not
that cruel. I don't mind getting rid of scum like
Ridgers and his mate, but I don't hurt kids.'

Somehow Bolt doubted it. If Doyle was cruel
enough to lock Emma in a cellar and subject her to
such a terrifying ordeal, he was definitely cruel
enough to dispose of her afterwards.

'What about the cleaner? Was she scum as
well?'

'That was a pity,' Doyle answered, sounding
genuinely regretful. 'I got Ridgers' prison buddy,
Roven, to get to know her. It was the only way we
could get the alarm codes to plant the bugs. I tried
getting past the alarm a couple of times myself,
but it was too sophisticated. And once Roven had
the information, he had to get rid of her.'

'But we never found any bugs in the house.'

'We used the simplest ones of all: a couple of
mobile phones planted in the house and set up to
hands-free kits. All we had to do was put them on
silent and auto answer, then dial the numbers,
and we could hear everything. The reason you
never found them was because they'd both run
out of batteries by Friday, so they wouldn't have
shown up on all the new-fangled stuff you use these
days. I didn't think we'd need them beyond then.'

Bolt knew it was possible to turn standard
mobile phones into covert listening devices with
only a few standard modifications. They should
have thought of that. Not that it would have made
any difference in the end.

'You know, I can't believe a friend of mine –
someone I've known for, God, how long is it?

sixteen, seventeen years? – could do what you've
done and sit here trying to justify it.'

Doyle sat up in his seat and glared at Bolt,
blowing smoke into the front of the car.

'I saved your life last night, Mikey boy.
Remember that. If I hadn't put a bullet in Ridgers,
he'd have cut you to pieces, and you know it.' He
dragged hard on the cigarette. 'I saved your life,
even though you turning up there nearly ruined
everything for me. Just like you turning up now
has.'

'Forgive me if I don't apologize for wanting to
rescue my daughter from the animals you hired.'
'You know I'd never have done it if I'd known
she was anything to do with you. Like I say, all I
wanted was my money.'

Bolt stared at him in the wing mirror.

'You keep saying that, "my money". Andrea ran
a business she'd built up from scratch. What did
she owe you?'

'How do you think she started that business?
There was other money that Jimmy Galante had
stashed away that went missing after he left the
country. Money that she had. Don't ever make the
mistake of thinking that bitch is whiter than
white.'

Doyle opened the window and chucked his
cigarette butt out.

'Go straight across at the lights, and don't try
anything. There's a turning up here somewhere.'

'Where are we going?'

'Just for a little drive.'

Bolt knew what was coming. He slowed down
as the lights went red, and the Mondeo came to a
halt.

'So, you're going to kill me then?'

Doyle looked pained. 'Course not, Mike. We go
back way too far for that.'

'Sure we do.'

The lights went green and Bolt pulled away. He
knew that Doyle couldn't afford to leave him
alive, even if he was an old friend. When you were
responsible for as many killings as he'd been this
past week, you became hardened to it, and Jack
Doyle had always been a hard man, unafraid to
make tough decisions.

The mobile in Bolt's pocket rang.

'Aren't you going to answer that?'

Bolt pulled it out, but Doyle extended his free
hand. 'Give me that,' he said, taking it off him. He
examined the screen as it continued to ring.

'Who's Tina Boyd?'

Bolt tensed. What could she want now?

'She's a friend.'

Doyle smiled knowingly. 'Friend, or girlfriend?'

'Friend.'

The mobile stopped ringing and went to voicemail,
before ringing again for a few seconds to
announce a message. Doyle put it to his ear, still
keeping the gun firmly on Bolt.

But as he listened to Tina's message, something
happened. As Bolt watched in the rear-view
mirror, Doyle's face, blotchy and lined after years
of too much boozing, began to drain of colour, and
his breathing rate increased.

'Shit!' he hissed, throwing the phone to the
floor. It clattered under one of the seats. 'Shit,
shit, shit! How the hell do they know about me?'

Somehow they were on to him. Bolt wondered
whether this was a good or a bad thing. He had a
grim feeling it might be the latter.

'It's over, Jack,' he said, trying hard to stay
calm, looking for a chance to get out of range of
that gun. 'You can give yourself up. None of what
you've said in here's admissible in court. You'll
get done for kidnapping, but you'll miss the
murder charge.'

Behind him, Doyle fidgeted in his seat.

'It ain't going to happen, pal,' he said after a
short pause. 'They know. Somehow they know
I pulled the trigger on Ridgers. What am I going
to do?'

'Give up.'

'Fuck you. No way. Got to think, pal. That's
what I've got to do.'

He exhaled deeply, still training the gun on
Bolt, his expression distracted as he desperately
weighed up his options.

Bolt noticed he wasn't wearing a seatbelt.

Without warning, he slammed his foot down on
the accelerator and swung the wheel hard left,
cutting up the car in the next lane.

'What the hell are you doing? Stop, or I'll
shoot!'

Bolt's whole body stiffened, expecting a bullet
any second, but he kept driving, aiming straight at
a line of concrete bollards on the edge of the pavement.

'Stop, you bastard, stop!'

There was a tremendous bang as Bolt hit the
nearest bollard head-on, his foot still flat on the
floor, and the sound of shattering glass and
crunching metal. At exactly the same time, a shot
rang out in the car, louder than the initial crash
and deafening Bolt as he was flung forward in his
seat like a stringless puppet. Out of the corner of
his eye he saw Doyle smash into the front
passenger seat, then fly backwards, his legs
flailing wildly, before disappearing altogether.