Knife Edge (21 page)

4.57 P.M.

    There were beads of perspiration on Doyle's forehead as he pushed open the door of Detective Inspector Calloway's office.

    He looked at the DI then at Detective Sergeant Mason who was standing staring at the phone, as if his persistent gaze would cause it to ring. Or perhaps prevent it.

    Doyle ran a hand through his hair, brushing sweat with it.

    'Have you set up the link to the car in Newham?' Doyle wanted to know.

    'We're having problems with it,' Calloway said, his face pale. 'The girl will be able to hear Neville but he won't be able to hear her.'

    'Oh, fucking great.'

    'We tried, Doyle,' Calloway snapped angrily. 'We're still trying.'

    'Well try harder,' Doyle rasped.

    Mason looked at the counter terrorist, who was pulling a cigarette from the packet.

    'What else can we do?' the DS barked. 'You couldn't find Neville, could you? The fucking expert.'

    'Shut it, fatso,' Doyle said, lighting his cigarette. 'You couldn't find your oversized arse with two hands and a fucking map.'

    Mason took a step towards Doyle who merely glared at him and blew a stream of smoke across the office.

    The phone on Calloway's desk rang.

    The three men looked at each other, the room silent but for the high-pitched signal.

    Two rings.

    Calloway looked at the phone.

    Three rings.

    Doyle sucked hard on his cigarette.

    The DI picked up the receiver.

    Doyle moved closer to the desk, his eyes never leaving the policeman's face. He saw him frown.

    'Not this one,' Calloway said. 'I said to keep this line clear.'

    He slammed down the receiver.

    'Jesus Christ,' hissed the DI. 'Someone put an internal call through here.'

    Doyle shook his head.

    Mason checked his watch.

    'What about the link?' Doyle asked.

    'They can't have managed it,' Calloway told him. 'We would have been notified.'

    'Then we're fucked. If Neville finds out we haven't got his kid, that's it. That's all, folks.' He made a fist of his right hand then flicked his fingers upwards. 'Bang.'

    The phone rang again.

    Calloway waited.

    Two rings.

    Three.

    He picked it up. 'Detective Inspector Calloway.'

    Both Mason and Doyle saw him nod almost imperceptibly.

    The DI reached forward and pressed a switch on the console beside the phone, replacing the receiver on its cradle.

    Through the speaker-phone they could hear Robert Neville's voice echoing around the office.

    'It's time,' he said. 'I want to speak to my daughter.'

    'We know, we got your note,' Calloway told him.

    Neville chuckled. 'I was going to deliver it personally but I decided against it,' he said jovially.

    'Gutless bastard,' Doyle called.

    'Hello, Doyle,' said Neville. 'I thought you'd still be there.'

    'I'm here until the end, Neville,' the counter terrorist told him. 'Your end.'

    'Don't hold your breath,' Neville retorted. 'Now let me speak to Lisa.'

    Calloway gripped the receiver more tightly.

    'I want your assurance that you won't let off any more bombs-' the DI began, but Neville cut him short.

    'You're in no position to make fucking deals. Put her on. Now!'

    Silence.

    'Don't fuck me around,' Neville continued, his voice growing in volume. 'Let me speak to her now.'

    'Neville, I-'

    'I warned you what would happen. How many more lives do you want on your conscience?'

    The phone went dead.

5.03 P.M.

    The plane was going down.

    Flames were pouring from its tail and one wing, smoke trailing behind it.

    Paul Mortimer raked it with machine-gun fire once more and grinned as the stricken craft finally hit the ground, exploding in a great yellow fireball.

    GAME OVER flashed up on the screen and he chuckled to himself as his score appeared on the top right-hand corner of the screen.

    On either side of him similar sounds joined together to form one discordant cacophony.

    The punches and kicks from the combat games, the explosions emanating from the shoot-em-up's. And through it all, the shouts and joyful exclamations of those playing the games.

    The bank of arcade games was on the first floor of the Trocadero complex between Leicester Square and Piccadilly Circus. The building itself housed shops, the Guinness Book of Records exhibition, places to eat and a twelve-screen cinema.

    It was towards the main entrance that Mortimer briefly glanced.

    Penny was in there now with their two children, wedged in with the masses of others who had flocked to see the newest Batman film on its first day of release. The queues had been massive. Paul had bought the tickets himself a week earlier as a birthday treat for Jake, their elder child.

    Mortimer had wanted to see the film himself but, as ever, something had come up at the last minute and he'd been forced to pack his wife and the children off together, arranging to meet them outside when the performance ended.

    When the work was there he had to take it.

    He'd run his own photographic business for the last eighteen months and things were going well. Better than even he'd dared to hope. It had been a tough decision to take in the first place, striking out alone. The photographic firm he'd worked for since leaving college eight years earlier had provided steady and well-paid work, but Mortimer had wanted to escape the shackles of being an employee.

    Besides, he felt his talents could be better used in fields other than taking pictures for the Next and Top Man catalogues.

    Mind you, the work had been pleasant, he had to admit that and, while shooting part of the lingerie section for a Freemans catalogue, he'd met Penny.

    The attraction had been instant.

    They'd married seven months later. Two years on she was pregnant with Jake.

    Kelly followed eighteen months after.

    When he'd first suggested going it alone Penny had been her usual practical self, sitting down and working out, to the last copper, how much he would need to earn to maintain the comfortable life-style which they had built for themselves. It wouldn't be easy, they'd both realised that, but Mortimer had many contacts in the business and Penny herself had been asked to return to modelling on a part-time basis. Just hands, face and feet (even a body as well preserved and cared for as hers hadn't quite recovered sufficiently from producing two children to allow her back into the lingerie business). But the offers coming her way were good too.

    They had decided they could make a go of things and the best way to prove it was to do it.

    Mortimer had worked steadily, sometimes fren-ziedly, Penny thought, since forming his own company.

    He'd received the phone call from the Athenaeum Hotel that morning, asking him if he would come in and speak to them. Discuss the possibility of him taking on a long-term contract to photograph their promotional material.

    They had agreed to his price on the spot.

    Mortimer smiled, spun round in the seat and fed more coins into the video game.

    One more go before he met his family.

    Two teenagers stood watching him as he gleefully racked up another huge score. Perhaps they wondered why this man in his early thirties was so engrossed in the game they were waiting to play. He looked old enough to be their father, they thought.

    Nevertheless they watched intently.

    He was pretty good for an older bloke.

    The explosion which killed all three of them was enormous.

    A sudden screaming eruption of fire and smoke seemed to fill the entire building as it roared outwards from its source.

    Before the screen they were watching dissolved, Mortimer and the two youths saw just two words before them.

    GAME OVER.

5.14 P.M.

    'That bloody maniac,' roared DS Colin Mason. He held both hands to his head, fingers clasped at the back of his skull. 'Christ. How many more?'

    'How many dead?' Doyle asked. He stood at one of the large picture windows of Calloway's office gazing out over the city.

    The DI glanced at the piece of paper before him and shook his head.

    'It's difficult to tell so early,' He said wearily. 'But initial estimates put the death toll at twelve. More than three times that injured, some of them critical.'

    'Any idea how big the device was?'

    'Too early to say,' Calloway informed Doyle. 'The bomb squad is at the Trocadero now checking it out. It'll be another couple of hours before they come up with a full report.'

    'Two bombs within half a mile of each other,' Mason said. 'We're going to have to close off central London at this rate.'

    'How can we close off the entire centre of a city?' Calloway snapped. 'Besides, we don't know if the next bomb will be in the centre or further out.' He slammed the table with the flat of his hand. 'Maybe we should evacuate the whole damn place until we catch Neville.'

    'I want to know how he's managed to keep clear of our patrols for so long,' Mason added.

    'If he's riding a motorbike then he's wearing a helmet, isn't he, Sherlock?' Doyle chided. 'Chances are he's changed bikes or at least changed clothes since this morning. What are you going to do, pull in every bike rider in the city for questioning?'

    'So let's hear your suggestions, Doyle,' Mason barked.

    'Do what he says,' the counter terrorist said quietly. 'If he wants his daughter, then fucking give her to him.'

    'Give in to him?' Mason said scornfully. 'Never.'

    Doyle shrugged. 'You've got another option,' he said, sucking on his cigarette.

    'Which is?' Calloway demanded.

    'Let him use up the rest of the explosive. By my calculations, he should have about a hundred and twenty pounds left.'

    'Let him use it?' Mason gasped incredulously. 'You mean let him detonate more bombs?'

    'Then give him his daughter,' Doyle rasped. 'It's the only way you're going to stop him. You can't handle a man like Neville. He's not some dickhead with a sawn-off shotgun or a nigger purse snatcher. He's a professional. And he's right out of your league.' He pointed an accusatory finger towards the DS.

    'You sound as if you admire him,' Calloway murmured.

    'I don't admire him, I understand him,' Doyle said. 'I've been fighting men like him for longer than I can remember.'

    The phone rang.

    Calloway picked it up.

    Doyle watched the expression on his face change.

    'Neville,' the DI said. He pressed the button on the console to switch the phone to speaker.

    'I warned you what would happen if I didn't speak to my daughter,' Neville said, his voice echoing from the speakers.

    'Twelve more people killed,' Mason shouted. I hope you're happy, you mad bastard.'

    'Is Doyle there?' Neville wanted to know, ignoring the outburst.

    'Yeah, I'm here.'

    'I need your help.'

    'Fuck you,' Doyle called back.

    'I want my daughter, and this time you're going to make sure I get her.'

    'How?'

    'You're going to bring her to me personally.'

5.16 P.M.

    Silence fell upon the room.

    Both Mason and Calloway looked at Doyle, who took the cigarette from his lips and stubbed it out, watching the plume of smoke rise lazily into the air. 'Did you hear what I said?' Neville asked.

    Doyle didn't answer.

    'We heard,' Calloway responded.

    'Forget it, Neville, I'm not playing your fucking games,' Doyle told him.

    'Then a lot more people are going to die, aren't they?' Neville reminded him.

    'What do you want Doyle to do?' Calloway said.

    Doyle shot him an angry glance, but the DI held up a restraining hand.

    'Like I said, I want him to bring me my daughter,' Neville continued. 'No tricks, no double-cross. If he tries to pull anything I'll let off another bomb.'

    'You'll do it anyway,' Doyle said dismissively.

    'You'll have to trust me not to,' Neville chuckled.

    'I wouldn't trust you to tell me what day of the week it was,' Doyle snarled.

    'Here's the deal,' Neville began. 'Doyle brings Lisa to me and I won't detonate the other bombs. Any fucking about and I'll let all of them blow and that includes the big one.'

    'I thought you were saving that one until eight o'clock,' Doyle said mockingly.

    'Only if I don't get what I want.'

    'If you blow them all you've got nothing to bargain with,' Doyle pointed out.

    'Maybe, but you've got an awful lot of dead bodies on your hands if I do.'

    'He'll do it,' Mason interjected.

    'Don't you tell me what I will or won't do,' Doyle hissed.

    'Come on, Doyle,' Neville continued. 'You wanted to find me, didn't you? I'm giving you the chance. Bring Lisa to me and you'll find me.'

    'Yeah, pointing a fucking gun at my head.'

    'That's a possibility,' Neville sniggered. 'So, what do you say?'

    'I want to know what your game is, Neville. What's all this about? Or don't you even know any more? Is it about your daughter or is it about what went on in Ireland? You can't change it now. You can't change the past, or the future. It's over out there.'

    'Maybe not.'

    'What's that supposed to mean?'

    'Bombs in London, bombs in Belfast, bombs in Dublin. One city's the same as another.'

    Doyle stroked his chin thoughtfully.

    Bombs in Dublin.

    'What the hell's he talking about?' Calloway demanded.

    'He's bluffing,' Doyle said.

    'Can you take that chance, Doyle?' Neville teased.

    The counter terrorist was pacing the office, head bowed slightly. He swept one hand through his long hair and sucked in a deep breath.

    'London today, Dublin or Belfast tomorrow,' Neville continued. 'Unless I get what I want. Unless you bring me what I want. Is it a deal?'

    
Take the kid. Get close to Neville. Kill the cunt.

    'I'm not going to wait all fucking night, Doyle. Yes or no?'

    
Do it. How else are you going to find him?

    'Tell me the deal.'

    'Is that a yes?' Neville pressed.

    'You know it is,' Doyle growled.

    
I'm coming to get you, shithead.

    'I knew I could count on you, Doyle,' Neville laughed. 'We're two of a kind. I'm going to send you and Lisa on a little journey first, before I meet you. I'll tell you where to go and when. Just make sure you listen carefully to what I say. I'll call back with the first set of instructions.'

    He hung up.

    'Bastard!' Doyle shouted, then, turning to Calloway, 'I've got to talk to Julie Neville. Where is she?'

    'A car is bringing her, Kenneth Baxter and the little girl here.'

    'Well, let me know as soon as they get here,' Doyle instructed, heading for the door. 'Someone's got to tell Julie Neville what we're going to do with her daughter.'

    'Where are you going?' Calloway asked.

    'There's something I've got to do,' Doyle told him.