Deadline (29 page)

Then the airbag shot out, driving the wind out
of Bolt as it smothered him in its rubbery grip. For
a few seconds he was crushed against his seat,
unable to move, not even sure whether or not the
bullet had hit him. Then, realizing that it hadn't,
he managed to yank open the door handle and
struggle free, desperate to get out.

He staggered round the front of the Mondeo,
conscious that he was outside a parade of shops,
some of which were open. Shocked onlookers
were gathering fast, the majority of them looking
at something round the back of the car.

'He's got a gun!' someone called out, and the
small crowd moved backwards quickly.

Doyle was lying on the pavement about ten feet
from the back of the car, propped up precariously
on one elbow, the revolver hanging loosely from
his hand. He must have been flung out of the back
window, but somehow had managed to retain his
grip on the gun, which was typical of him. He'd
always been single-minded. Blood stained his
shirt and sports jacket, and a huge gash had
opened up one cheek like a second, bleeding
mouth. He was in a bad way, but when he saw
Bolt, something flashed in his eyes and he tried
hard to lift the gun.

For a long moment they simply watched each
other, oblivious to everyone around them, each
man trying hard to come to terms with this
terrible turn of events that had destroyed things
between them for ever. Then Bolt began walking
towards him, steady, confident strides that ate up
the distance fast.

Doyle's eyes narrowed, but he was having difficulty
focusing and the gun was shaking in his
hand. Several people in the crowd gasped but no
one made a move to intervene. It was as if they
were watching the last dramatic scene in a TV cop
drama.

Blood leaked out of the corner of Doyle's
mouth, running down his chin. Bolt saw his finger
tighten on the trigger, the end of the barrel
pointed towards his belly, and he felt a lurch of
adrenalin that almost lifted him off his feet. In that
second, he leapt forward, stamped on the wrist of
Doyle's shaking gun hand and drove it into the
pavement. Doyle grunted and fell down on his
back, losing his grip on the revolver.

Bolt snatched it up and pointed it, two-handed,
down at Doyle's chest, holding it steady, his face
as hard as stone.

'Don't do it!' someone in the crowd cried out,
shrill and fearful.

But he was never going to. There was no point.
Emma was safe, Jack Doyle was finished, and
finally his rage was fading, to be replaced by a
leaden sense of regret that an old friendship he'd
once thought so strong could have ended up like
this. Tattered, bleeding, and ultimately hollow.

Doyle's eyes closed and his head rolled to one
side, more blood trailing out of his mouth and
dripping on to the concrete.

Bolt took a step back, then another, until he
reached the car. He propped himself up against it
and noticed the crowd watching – twenty, thirty
strong now – for the first time.

'Someone dial nine-nine-nine,' he said with as
much strength as he could muster.

Then tiredness seemed to overwhelm him and,
still clutching the revolver, he slid down the car
and landed in a sitting position on the tarmac.

It was over.

Tina Boyd stood in the shadows thrown by the
low-rise council flats and looked through the
darkness at the brand-new four-door Lexus GS
parked behind the chainlink fence on the other
side of the road. It had just turned twenty past ten
and she'd been standing there for more than an
hour already. She wondered if she was wasting
her time. Probably. But Tina wasn't the sort to give
up that easily. She'd give it another half an hour
before calling it a day.

She stifled a yawn. It had been a manic
weekend but at least events had come to a
comparatively clean conclusion, which, as most
police officers would tell you, is very rarely the
case. Pat Phelan had at last turned up, although
the manner in which he did so left something to
be desired. A thorough search by Enfield SOCO of
one of the farm's outbuildings revealed his
dismembered remains inside a barrel of sulphuric
acid, where they were dissolving steadily; they
would probably have been little more than sludge
had they been left for another week. His teeth had
been forcibly removed, and identification had
only been possible because a large 'Ban the Bomb'
tattoo on what was left of his upper arm was still
just about visible, and was recognized by Andrea
Devern.

The other main development that day had been
the uncovering of the third person involved in the
kidnap, DI Jack Doyle of the Flying Squad. A
woman who lived a hundred yards from the farm
had heard the gunshots the previous evening and
had gone outside to investigate. She'd seen an
unfamiliar car parked down the lane from her
house, and because of the circumstances she'd
written down the registration number. A few
minutes later she'd seen a man return to the car
and drive away. Because there were a number of
farms in the area, and the sound of shotguns being
fired wasn't that unusual, the woman hadn't
called the police. But when they'd turned up at
her door earlier that day as part of their general
enquiries, she'd told them about what had
happened. The car was quickly traced to DI
Doyle, and when the witness was shown his
photo she was able to say that it bore a very strong
resemblance to the person she'd seen. Not enough
for a conviction perhaps, but ample justification
for an arrest warrant to be issued, and from that
moment on his fate had been sealed. However,
before he could be arrested, he'd been involved in
a car crash, and was now seriously ill in hospital.
A gun recovered from the scene with his fingerprints
on it had subsequently been confirmed as
the weapon used to murder Scott Ridgers at the
farm.

The reason why it was only a comparatively
clean conclusion rather than an absolutely perfect
result was that Matt Turner was still very ill and
Mike Bolt, who more than anyone deserved credit
for the op's overall success, was suspended until
further notice. It didn't seem fair. And this was the
main reason Tina was hanging around in the dark
in a bad part of town, waiting. Because sometimes
doing the job and upholding the law didn't necessarily
provide the justice it was meant to.
Sometimes you had to dispense that justice yourself,
as an individual. Like Mike had done
yesterday.

There was movement across the road. A group
of men emerged from the entrance to the monolithic
tower block, three of them in all, moving
purposefully, their voices low. They stopped at
the Lexus and got inside, pulling out seconds
later.

Tina retreated further into the shadows and
took out her mobile as they drove past her. It was
an unregistered pay-as-you go she'd bought on
Tottenham Court Road earlier that day, and as the
Lexus came to the end of the road and turned left,
she dialled 999, asking for police.

'Hello, can I help you?'

'I've just seen three men get into a car armed
with guns.'

'Are you sure about this, madam?'

'Absolutely,' she said breathlessly. 'They
walked right past me.'

She gave her location, the make and model of
the car, and the direction it was travelling in,
waiting patiently while the operator took all the
information down.

'And can I have your name, madam?'

'I don't want to get involved, I'm too scared.'

And with that, she ended the call, switched off
the phone, and walked back to her car.

When she'd phoned the number Leon Daroyce
had given her an hour earlier she'd disguised her
voice and said he could find Pat Phelan at a flat in
Colindale, where he was holed up with a lover,
hoping he'd take the bait. And now it looked like
he had done. She had no idea whether Daroyce
and his two associates would be armed or not, but
it didn't really matter since when the police
stopped the car they'd find the five grams of
cocaine she'd planted in the glove compartment.
It had taken all the burglary skills she'd learned at
SOCA to bypass the Lexus's sophisticated alarm
system, as well as one hell of a lot of nerve, but it
would be worth it. Armed with the coke, the
police would be able to execute a search warrant
on Daroyce's premises, a place she was absolutely
sure would be full of illegal contraband.

It might not be enough to put him away for
years, or even months, but at least she'd done
something to disrupt his business and pay him
back for the ordeal he'd put her through two days
earlier, and a search of the flat would probably
mean freedom for the girl he'd abused as well,
which had to be a good thing. He would probably
work out who'd been behind it, and might even
want to extract some kind of revenge when he
was back on the street, but she doubted he'd risk
killing a SOCA agent. Whatever he might like to
claim, Daroyce was a bully, and bullies tended to
be cowards when it came down to it.

She knew what her former lover, John Gallan,
would have thought of her actions. He'd have
disapproved, not only because what she'd done
was potentially so dangerous, but also because
he'd always believed in the absolute sanctity of
the law he'd been paid to uphold. But as Tina and
countless many others had found to their cost
down the years, the law didn't always punish the
bad, just like it didn't always protect the good.
Sometimes you just had to bend the rules, even if
that did mean planting evidence.

Somewhere deep inside, the realization of what
she'd done and the huge risk she'd taken worried
her. But nowhere near enough to regret it, and
there was even something of a spring in her step
as she walked down the quiet, litter-strewn street
and heard the first of the sirens converging on
Leon Daroyce.

It was a cool, drizzly day, very different to the
Indian summer of the past ten days or so, and
Mike Bolt and Andrea Devern were standing on
Hampstead Heath, looking up in the direction of
Kenwood House.

Andrea looked good. She was dressed in a
three-quarter-length raincoat, her long auburn
hair flowing over the collar. Her eyes were bright
and alive in a way Bolt hadn't seen since their
affair all those years ago.

'I really didn't want to do it,' she was saying to
him now. 'It's no consolation, I know, but I was
under huge amounts of pressure. Will you forgive
me?'

Bolt looked at her. Andrea Devern had put him
through hell, there was no doubt about it, but
she'd also had one of the best reasons going for
doing so. The safety of her daughter. Not his,
unfortunately, he knew that now, but he could still
sympathize. Today was the first time the two of
them had seen each other since the chaotic aftermath
of the ransom drop, but what should
perhaps have been an awkward meeting felt
anything but.

But then
, Bolt thought ruefully,
Andrea has
always had a way of making me feel good
.

He smiled. 'Sure, I forgive you. Maybe I'd have
done the same in your position.'

'No, you wouldn't. You're not like that. You're a
good man, Mike. You've got too much integrity.'

He shrugged. 'Maybe. But we all do desperate
things sometimes. I'd like to see Emma at some
point, too. I know she's not mine, but it would be
nice to see how she's getting on.'

'I'll get her to call you when she's feeling better.
She's been sleeping most of the past few days.'

'But she's OK?'

'Yeah, she's doing well. She's a fighter, just like
me. She's upset about Pat. She liked him.'

'How do you feel about it?'

'I've shed my tears. He wasn't such a bad bloke,
and I'm glad he didn't betray either me or Emma.
That's a comfort.'

'Good.'

'And what about your colleague, Turner? The
one who was at my place. How's he getting on?'

'He's out of intensive care and they say he
should make a full recovery, but he's going to be
in hospital for a while yet.'

'I hope he's all right. He seemed a nice guy.'

Neither of them mentioned Jack Doyle. He was
still in a bad way in hospital but Bolt had little
doubt he'd survive. Jack wasn't the kind to give
up. He'd always been too bloody-minded for that,
although he had little to look forward to when
and if he did finally make it.

'And how about you, Mike?' asked Andrea.
'How are you managing? What's going to happen
about your suspension?'

'I don't know yet. I'm still waiting to hear what
action they're planning to take against me.'

'They shouldn't take any. You were a bloody
hero. If it wasn't for you . . .'

There was no need for her to finish the sentence.
They both knew what she meant.

He wasn't sure that he had been a hero, though.
More likely he'd been a fool, and it was foolishness
that still might cost him his job. But he didn't
regret his actions, had even stopped worrying
about the whole thing these past couple of days.
What would happen would happen anyway, so it
was easier just to think about something else.

They were silent for a moment, each watching
the other. Conscious that there was still something
there. Finally, Bolt spoke again.

'The reason I wanted to meet you today was
because I had a question.'

Andrea looked wary. 'OK . . .'

'That day we met in the West End all those
years ago, when we went back to your hotel. That
wasn't, you know . . .'

'What?'

He suddenly felt embarrassed to bring it up.

'It was genuine coincidence, right? You didn't
know I was going to be there?'

'You asked me that before. A long time ago.'

'And now I'm asking it again.'

Andrea smiled a little sadly. 'Have I been that
bad to you that you could believe it wasn't?'

'I just wanted to hear it from your own lips
again. Now that this is all over.'

'It was genuine coincidence, Mike. I promise.'

She'd lied to him before, but he chose to believe
her this time. Perhaps it was easier that way.

'So, what now?' she asked, and there was an
element of invitation in her hazel eyes.

He'd thought a lot about this these past couple
of days, and hadn't known the answer until he'd
arrived here today and seen Andrea as she should
have been – happy, attractive and spirited.

'Well?'

'We do the same thing we did fifteen years ago,
Andrea.' He looked her in the eyes and smiled.
'We part company.'

Her expression didn't change. 'Are you sure? I
thought maybe there was still something there
between us. Something that might be worth
exploring.'

He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek,
lingering just a second over her scent, wanting to
hold her but not knowing where it would end if
he did, before moving away.

'Good luck, Andrea,' he said.

The invitation remained in her eyes for another
second, then faded as she accepted the inevitable.

'And to you, Mike, and to you.'

He turned and left her there, striding away
purposefully, wishing perhaps that things could
have been different – that Emma was his
daughter, that Andrea genuinely loved him, that
they could end up as the kind of happy family he
and Mikaela had never had the chance to create.
But knowing too that he'd made the right
decision. It was time to make a clean break with
the past, start looking towards the future.

And where better to start than with a twenty-eight year-old
artist from St Ives with raven hair
and a dirty laugh.

As he walked out on to Spaniards Road, he took
out his mobile and called Jenny Byfleet, hoping
that she was in a forgiving mood.

THE END