Knife Edge (15 page)

1.30 P.M.

    There was a loud rumble followed closely by a thunderous crash.

    Clouds of dust billowed upwards in a choking cloud.

    Stephen Casey stood on the corner of Lower John Street, one corner of Golden Square, and watched as the rubble tumbled down the chute before clattering to rest on the pile already gathered in the large skip to his left.

    Casey could see that a Mercedes parked close by had been covered with a thin sheen of brick dust. The vehicle looked as if it was beginning to rust.

    The car was legally parked. He knew, he'd already checked it, his inspection of the vehicle accompanied by one or two jeers from the workmen toiling high above him on the scaffolding of the building. Two of them had leaned over the edge of the parapet and called out something to him as he'd checked the meter beside which the Mercedes was parked. He'd also checked the tax disc, which was valid too.

    He hadn't heard clearly what the men had shouted, the sound of crashing rubble had drowned their words. He'd only managed to catch the odd word here and there. Something about a ticket. He'd heard the word Hitler. He was sure he had.

    He'd been a traffic warden for the last seven years, so it wouldn't have been the first time.

    Casey readjusted his cap and crossed to his right, glancing back once again at the building with the skeletal framework of scaffolding before it.

    As he reached the other side of Golden Square there was another loud crash as more rubble hurtled down the chute into the skip. More brick dust rose.

    A despatch rider cruised into view from the northern end of the square.

    He glanced at Casey as he slowed down, wondered whether to leave the bike on the yellow lines outside the building he was delivering to and decided to take the chance.

    As he entered the building he held up one gloved finger in the traffic warden's direction, indicating how long he was going to be.

    Casey waved back and smiled to himself.

    He wouldn't have booked the rider. He wouldn't and neither would any of his colleagues. They weren't that bad, despite what the public thought.

    Casey moved across the square, glancing around him.

    People were moving through it on either side of the central grass rectangle. Surrounded by iron railings and flower beds, it was a pleasant enough setting. A little piece of greenery enclosed by the vast expanses of concrete and steel which seemed to have sprung up around it.

    Casey often sat in the square on one of the benches and ate his sandwiches when he found time for lunch. He'd usually try and work his patrol so that he ended up there when it was time to eat. Workers from nearby offices did likewise in the summer. Some even sunbathed on the grass in hot weather. It was a pleasing little oasis.

    There was another almighty crash as more rubble was despatched down the chute.

    He glanced in the window of a design shop as he passed, gazing at the two or three mannequins there. They were all dressed in the garish, brightly coloured creations of the shop. Crop tops, wraparound skirts in multicoloured patterns, box jackets with unusually large shoulder pads.

    He could see two young women towards the back of the showroom chatting animatedly. Both of them were dressed in black mini-skirts. One wore thick grey tights beneath. It seemed to defeat the object, Casey thought, noticing that they both gazed at him as he passed.

    The Metro to his left was illegally parked.

    He hurried his pace as he headed towards it, noting that it stood on double yellow lines outside the Ear, Nose and Throat Hospital.

    There was nothing remarkable about the car. Pale green, about four years old, bodywork immaculately clean. As he drew level with it he gently placed one hand on the bonnet, which was cool.

    The car had obviously been there some time.

    He peered through the window into the vehicle.

    There was an A-Z open on the passenger seat, bent back and dog-eared through use.

    A fresh-air strip was hanging from the rear-view mirror.

    Casey tried the door.

    Locked.

    He glanced at the back seats.

    There were a couple of books there. Kids' books. Some balled-up sweet papers had been scattered over the upholstery. A half-eaten bag of wine gums also lay there.

    A furry Garfield was stuck to the side window by four suction cups attached to its feet.

    Casey walked around the car and saw a sticker in the back window.

    A heart and the simple message:
I Love Life
.

    Casey smiled and reached for his book of tickets.

    The explosion was so ferocious that it lifted him several feet into the air.

    All he heard was a sound like a paper bag bursting. A very, very large paper bag. Then nothing.

    He was dead before he hit the pavement.

    The skip had exploded with the force of a small warhead, the metal it was constructed from joining with the shattered bricks it held to form a blanket of lethal shrapnel.

    Like some enormous hand-grenade, the shattered skip erupted, sending metal and pieces of stone in all directions.

    The concussion blast was strong enough to overturn the Mercedes parked close by, the bodywork already shredded by the flying debris.

    The back window of the Metro was smashed in by a piece of stone the size of a football.

    The scaffolding in front of the building merely crumbled, pieces of metal piping and wooden gangways collapsing like a house of cards.

    Two of the workmen toppled earthward with the ruins, one of them managing a scream of terror before he landed on the concrete below. His head burst like an overripe melon.

    The second fell into what was left of the skip, his spine snapping in several places as he struck the riven container and what was left of its load.

    Several of the cars parked close to the skip burst into flames, petrol tanks holed by lumps of flying stone or metal.

    The fires seemed to start a chain reaction, each successive vehicle catching fire, burning for a few minutes then exploding, adding more thick black smoke to the heaving pall already settling over the square.

    A combination of the concussion blast and the flying debris had blasted in almost every window of the buildings which made up the square.

    Stephen Casey lay on his face, his back torn open by a piece of metal, his spine exposed, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.

    The blast had ripped off one arm at the elbow, shredded his trousers, blown him out of his shoes.

    It had all happened so quickly.

    The blast, the deafening explosion, the flying debris.

    An uneasy silence descended over Golden Square, as dense as the cloud of black smoke which hovered above it like an ethereal shroud.

1.38 P.M.

    As Doyle pulled the Datsun to a halt he fumbled in his pocket for the piece of paper which Calloway had given him.

    
Number fifty-nine Mitre Road, Lambeth.

    He glanced at the door of the building before him.

    This was the place.

    He locked the car, lit a cigarette and strolled up to the door, ringing the bell twice.

    The WPC who answered the door was in her early twenties and she looked quizzically at Doyle, who flipped open the slim leather wallet which held his ID.

    She'd barely had time to glance at the small photo inside and compare it with the craggy-featured individual before her when he shut it and slid it back inside his jacket.

    As the coat parted she saw the butt of the Beretta beneath his left arm.

    'I want to speak to Julie Neville.'

    'I hadn't been told she was going to be questioned again,' the WPC said warily.

    'What's your name?' Doyle demanded.

    'WPC Robertson, sir.'

    'Did they give you a first name, WPC, and you don't have to call me sir.'

    Doyle was looking around as he spoke. The house was small. Clean and immaculately decorated. He could smell coffee from the kitchen to the rear of the building. From a room to his right he could hear a television.

    'Lucy,' the policewoman told him.

    'Well, Lucy, I want to talk to Julie Neville. If you don't trust me, ring Detective Inspector Calloway, he'll clear it.'

    'Would you mind?'

    Doyle frowned.

    'Right, you've proved you're efficient,' he said. 'Now let me see Mrs Neville, I haven't got all bloody day.' He pushed past the policewoman and into the sitting room.

    Julie Neville was seated on the sofa in the room, slender legs drawn up beneath her, both hands cradling a mug of coffee.

    'What do you want?' she said, looking at Doyle dismissively.

    'A chat.'

    'Another one?' she said, sipping her coffee.

    Doyle looked at the WPC.

    'If that coffee's fresh I'd love a cup, please, Lucy.' He smiled.

    He sat down beside Julie Neville who pulled her bare feet closer to her, away from the counter terrorist.

    He ran his finger along the sole of her right foot.

    She glared at him.

    The WPC was still hesitating in the doorway.

    'White, one sugar,' Doyle said, staring at her, his steely grey eyes narrowing. 'Now, please, Lucy.'

    The policewoman glanced at Julie who nodded slowly.

    'I'll be all right,' she said softly.

    'Call if you need me,' said the WPC and stepped outside the room.

    'Very cosy,' Doyle said. 'They seem to be looking after you.'

    'What do you care, Doyle?'

    'I think you read me wrong, Julie. I do care. Where's your daughter?'

    'Lisa's upstairs. Lucy's been keeping her entertained. They seem to be getting on pretty well.'

    'So, not all coppers are bastards then?'

    'I didn't say they were.'

    She took the cigarette he offered, sucking hard on it as he lit it for her.

    Julie blew a stream of smoke in Doyle's direction as she exhaled.

    'I heard about the bombs,' she said quietly.

    Doyle nodded.

    'How many people has he killed?'

    The counter terrorist shrugged. 'Including the second bomb, it must be over twenty now.'

    'Oh, Christ,' she murmured, running a hand through her hair. 'How are you going to stop him?'

    'I'll get him, don't worry about it,' Doyle assured her.

    'You seem very certain of that, Doyle.'

    'I am. But I need your help.'

    She looked quizzically at him.

    'He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants,' Doyle told her. 'And he wants his daughter.'

    Julie sat up, her eyes fixed on Doyle.

    'It's the only way, Julie,' he told her. 'That's why I'm here. I need your daughter.'

1.46 P.M.

    As Calloway and Mason stepped inside the interview room at New Scotland Yard, Kenneth Baxter hesitated.

    He stood motionless at the threshold, gazing around the room which was empty but for a table, four chairs and a tape recorder, which Calloway sat down next to.

    Mason leaned against the wall behind his superior.

    Baxter finally followed them in, eyeing both policemen warily, pausing again when Calloway gestured towards one of the chairs on the other side of the table.

    'You haven't told me what the charge is,' said Baxter.

    'There is no charge, Mr Baxter,' the DI told him, watching as the other man finally sat down.

    'What do you think we should be charging you with?' Mason enquired.

    Baxter smiled and leaned back in his chair, clasping his fingers together on his stomach. He wore a large Gold Sovereign ring on the middle finger of his right hand and the light from the fluorescents in the ceiling glinted on the metal as he rocked gently back and forth.

    'We need your help,' Calloway said. 'You know a man called Robert Neville, we need some information about him.'

    'They said that when they arrested me,' Baxter murmured.

    'You're not under arrest,' Calloway assured him. 'We just need some help.'

    'Why pick on me?'

    'As I said, you know Neville.'

    'What makes you think that?'

    'You were in the army together,' Calloway said, as if he needed to refresh Baxter's memory.

    'I was in the army with a lot of blokes, it doesn't mean I can remember all of them,' Baxter said dismissively.

    Calloway regarded Baxter carefully.

    
Why so aggressive?

    Baxter was still rocking back and forth on his chair.

    
Something bothering you?

    'What can you remember about him?' the DI asked.

    Baxter shrugged. 'He was pretty quiet, kept himself to himself. What do you want to know?'

    'We want to know what you know,' Mason interjected irritably.

    Calloway shot him a warning glance.

    Baxter smiled mockingly again.

    'Was Neville still in your unit when you were thrown out of the army?' the DS persisted.

    Baxter stopped rocking on his chair and allowed it to drop forward. 'What the fuck are you talking about?'

    'We know about the court martial,' Mason said gleefully.

    'It was never proved. None of the charges were,' Baxter growled.

    'They proved enough to throw you out,' Mason chided.

    'Who's on fucking trial here, anyway?' rasped Baxter. 'I thought you wanted to know about Neville.'

    'We do. Why don't you tell us what you know,' Calloway added. 'Have you seen him since you left the army?'

    'No,' Baxter said flatly.

    'He hasn't rung you?' the DI continued. 'Hasn't tried to contact you at work?'

    'No.'

    Baxter began turning the Sovereign ring gently on his finger, his gaze wavering slightly.

    Calloway leaned forward in his seat, both hands clasped on the table before him. 'Did Neville know why you were thrown out of the army?'

    'Everybody knew,' Baxter sneered. 'When the fucking army stitch you up, they make a good job of it.'

    'Why do it?' Calloway enquired. 'Why would the army do it if there was no truth in the charges?'

    'No smoke without fire, eh?' Mason smiled.

    'I never sold guns to anyone,' Baxter told the policemen. 'And, even if I did, that's got fuck all to do with you. I'm not under arrest, you said that.' He pointed an accusing finger in Calloway's direction.

    'Did Neville have anything to do with it?' Calloway persisted.

    'I thought this was about Neville.'

    'It is, but you're not telling us much,' the DI said.

    'We heard you were close,' Mason pressed.

    'And who the hell told you that?' Baxter demanded.

    'Come on, Mr Baxter. You served together, in the same unit, for how long? Seven years? Eight years?' Calloway said. 'The Paras are supposed to be different, aren't they? A team? Everyone counting on everyone else? Neville must have spoken about the way he felt, about what was going on in Ireland. Did he tell you about his family?'

    'He was married with a kid, I know that.'

    'Did you ever meet his family?'

    'No.'

    'How long have you worked for Nemesis Security?' Mason asked.

    'Eighteen months.'

    'Do you enjoy your work?' the DS continued.

    'It's better than drawing the bloody dole.'

    'It must be dangerous sometimes though,' Mason insisted.

    Baxter chuckled.

    'So is being a copper, isn't it?' he said, grinning. 'Especially when you've got some nutter letting off bombs.'

    Baxter leaned back on the two rear legs of his chair and began rocking once more.

    'What do you know about the bombs?' the DI asked.

    'Only what I heard on the news,' Baxter said. 'When's the next one?'

    Calloway looked at his watch.

    'In about forty-five minutes,' he said quietly.

    Baxter got to his feet.

    'Well, I hope you find it,' he said, smiling. 'Now, if there's nothing else, I've got work to do.'

    'Sit down, Mr Baxter,' Calloway said.

    'Why? You said I wasn't under arrest. If that's true I must be free to go. I came here of my own free will and now I want to leave.'

    'Before you do, there's someone else I'd like you to speak to,' said Calloway softly.