Knife Edge (25 page)

6.43 P.M.

    'Why do you hate my dad?'

    The question seemed to come from the very air itself.

    Doyle had his eyes closed as the Underground train pulled out of the station. He was grateful that it was so much quieter than earlier. There weren't above a dozen people in the entire carriage and most of those were seated at the far end.

    He opened his eyes and looked down at Lisa, who was seated beside him, pulling at a loose thread on one sleeve of her cardigan.

    'I don't hate him.'

    Which was true.

    'Then why do you shout at him on the phone?' Lisa persisted.

    Doyle sucked in a deep breath.

    
I really fucking need this now. Some deep, meaningful conversation with an eight-year-old kid about a man she thinks is her father. A man I'm going to kill.

    'Because he gets me mad,' Doyle answered eventually.

    Lisa continued playing with the loose thread.

    'He's ill,' she explained.

    'Who says so?'

    'My mum. She said that Dad isn't well, that he should see a doctor or something.' She looked up at him. 'Is he going to die?'

    
He is when I get hold of him.

    Doyle thought about saying yes. It would have been the easiest option. It might even have shut her up.

    He looked into her wide, questioning eyes.

    Christ, they were so blue. So perfectly, flawlessly blue. Like sapphires lit from behind.

    'What else did your mum say about him?'

    'She didn't talk much about him. I sometimes heard them shouting when he came home. I used to listen at the top of the stairs. They thought I was asleep but I used to creep out of my room and listen to them.'

    'What happened when your dad came home this time?'

    'Mum was surprised to see him.'

    'Yeah, I bet she was.'

    'They argued a lot this time.'

    'Did your dad ever hurt her?'

    'No. He wouldn't do that.'

    'Did he ever hurt you?'

    'He loves me. He always tells me that. He wouldn't hurt me.'

    Doyle slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out the Beretta, keeping it low, away from any prying gazes he might attract from the other passengers. The metal gleamed dully beneath the fluorescents inside the carriage.

    'Do you know what that is, Lisa?' he asked her.

    'It's a gun.'

    'Have you ever seen your dad with one?'

    She nodded.

    'He pointed one at my mum once,' she said, swallowing hard. 'I think they were playing because my dad was laughing.'

    'What about your mum?'

    'She just told me to go to my room. They didn't shout at each other that night.'

    Doyle holstered the automatic, noticing that his movements had attracted the attention of a man sitting a few seats away.

    Doyle glared at him and the man returned to reading his newspaper.

    'When will I see my dad?' Lisa asked.

    'Soon,' Doyle reassured her.

    'And what will happen then?'

    
I'll kill him.

    'I want my mum and dad to be together again. I don't like it when they shout at each other. I miss my dad.'

    Again Doyle found himself looking into those blue eyes. Eyes that were now moist at the corners. She sniffed back a tear.

    'Are you married?'

    Doyle smiled.

    'No,' he told her.

    'Do you love anybody?'

    He closed his eyes briefly.

    She was there in his memory.

    Georgie.

    He could see her laughing. Such an infectious laugh.

    The memories were still so strong. He saw her sitting opposite him in a restaurant, long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her gloriously slim body hugged by the tight, short black dress she wore.

    Perfection.

    He gritted his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.

    'Do you love anybody?'

    He looked down at Lisa.

    'No,' he said. 'I don't love anybody.'

    He tried to force the image to the back of his mind but it clung stubbornly.

    The train was leaving the station.

    Liverpool Street was the next stop.

    Doyle checked his watch.

6.48 P.M.

    'He won't hurt her, Julie, calm down,' Kenneth Baxter said, rising from his seat and attempting to slide one arm around Julie Neville's waist.

    She shook loose angrily.

    'How do you know that?'

    'I know Bob.'

    She laughed humourlessly.

    'Do you, Ken? Do you know him? Does Doyle? I'm not even sure I do. I don't think anyone knows what's going on inside his mind. He's unpredictable. He's dangerous. I think he's insane.'

    'He's not going to hurt his own daughter, is he?' Baxter argued.

    Julie looked at him.

    
But she's not his daughter. She's your daughter.

    She let out a weary breath.

    Should she tell him the truth, let him know that his own flesh and blood was in danger?

    She reached for the packet of Superkings on the table and lit one, blowing out a long stream of smoke.

    'When the hell are they going to release us?' Baxter looked around at the bare walls of the room inside New Scotland Yard.

    'They said we can leave when we want to, we're not under arrest,' she reminded him. 'Why? Are you getting nervous, Ken?'

    'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

    'The weapons that Bob's using, he got them from you, didn't he? And the explosives?'

    'You're starting to sound like one of those coppers,' he snapped. 'Don't you trust me either?'

    'I don't know who to trust any more.' She looked at him pleadingly. 'Just tell me the truth. Did Bob get those weapons from you?'

    'Yes,' said Baxter, unfalteringly. 'He came to me nearly two years ago, he knew I was selling to both sides. He knew I had access to the Quartermaster's stores, he knew I could get what he wanted.'

    'But why did he want it?'

    Baxter could only shrug.

    'At the time I didn't know. I didn't care either,' he said, flatly. 'He was a friend. He asked me to do something for him, I did it. That's how friendship works, isn't it?'

    'If he'd known about you and me he'd have killed us both.'

    'But he didn't know, did he? Why, what's wrong? Is your conscience pricking you after eight years?'

    She fixed him with an angry stare.

    'Did he get the explosive from you too?'

    Baxter nodded.

    'He contacted me about that a lot later,' he told her. 'After I'd left the army. I still had the contacts though, on both sides.'

    'And you didn't ask him why he wanted that either?'

    'It wasn't my business.'

    'He's killing people with those explosives, Ken. Isn't that your business either?'

    'Don't preach to me, Julie. It's a bit late for lectures. Anyway, what do you care? Once Doyle finds him he'll kill him and it'll all be over. We won't have to hide any more.' He slipped his arm around her shoulders, feeling her pull away but less vehemently this time. When he looked into her eyes he saw tears there.

    'Isn't that what you want?' he asked softly. 'For us to be together?'

    'I want Lisa back safely. That's all I want.'

    Baxter took his arm away and stepped back from her.

    'I don't want to lose her, Ken,' Julie said softly. 'I can't.'

    As she stood before him, Baxter watched as a single tear trickled down her cheek.

    She didn't bother to wipe it away.

6.58 P.M.

    'I didn't make a mistake,' said PC Nigel Butler, forced to raise his voice to make himself heard over the din of the helicopter's rotors. 'I heard the message clearly from DS Mason.'

    Butler shifted in his seat, both hands gripping the HK81 rifle.

    His palms felt sweaty against the wood and steel of the weapon. Not just because the evening was fairly humid but because he was nervous.

    He hated flying at the best of times. A plane was bad enough but the helicopter was even worse.

    When it had taken off that afternoon, with the minimum of forward movement then straight up into the air, he'd struggled to retain control over his stomach and ever since they'd been in the air he'd felt queasy.

    The Lynx was cruising at about one thousand feet and Butler was seated where the co-pilot would normally have sat. Unfortunately for him, he had an excellent view through the large windscreen of the chopper and also, when he inadvertently looked down, through the glazed nose panel.

    Beside him, the pilot, Jim McBride, guided the helicopter skilfully through the air, occasionally taking it lower. So low, it seemed to Butler, that they were destined to crash into some of the capital's taller structures, but the big Scot flying the Lynx merely smiled as he saw the expression of panic periodically flash across the policeman's face.

    Behind Butler, also armed with an HK81, Duncan Clark glanced into the cockpit, eyes roving over the banks of instruments which McBride dealt with almost nonchalantly. Lights flashed on and off and, throughout the flight, the muted sounds of voices floated back to him as McBride received instructions via his headset.

    Above it all, the constant roar of the huge rotor blades dominated everything as they cut through the sky.

    'How long before we reach Liverpool Street?' Clark shouted.

    'Three or four minutes,' McBride told him.

    'And you're sure you heard the order clearly?' Clark persisted, touching Butler's shoulders.

    'Yes. When Doyle gets to Liverpool Street he'll be tracked by plain-clothes men,' Butler began. 'They'll tail him to wherever Neville sends him. When he makes contact with Neville we'll be notified. We move in and shoot Neville. And we shoot to kill.'

***

    They rode the escalator from the lower platform, standing side by side.

    Doyle, his long brown hair swept back from the collar of his jacket, felt his face greasy with perspiration.

    Lisa, still pulling at the loose thread on her sleeve, gazed around her, taking it all in. Then she looked up at Doyle and slipped her hand into his.

    He glanced down at her, feeling her tiny hand inside his strong one.

    She smiled up at him and he found himself pinned in the almost luminous brilliance of her eyes.

    He managed a smile in return then he winked at her.

    
Do you reckon she'd still be smiling at you if she knew you were going to kill her father?

    Doyle brushed a hair from his face.

    
It isn't her father. But she thinks it is. That's all that matters.

    They stepped off the moving staircase, Doyle looking around the ticket hall. A flight of stone steps led up to the concourse itself.

    They began to climb, Doyle deliberately slowing his pace so that Lisa could keep up with him.

    She held his hand all the way up.

    As they emerged on to the concourse, Doyle's eyes sought the public phones. There were four of them to the right and he headed towards them, Lisa keeping step with him.

    Only when he actually reached the phones did Doyle release her hand.

    All four were in use.

    Doyle glanced at each user.

    A youth in a blue Chelsea shirt and baggy jeans was talking animatedly into the mouthpiece of the first phone.

    A young woman with a large suitcase beside her was at the second.

    Then a middle-aged man who kept looking at his watch as he spoke.

    At the fourth was a stunning Asian girl who was wearing a bright yellow jacket and the shortest skirt Doyle had ever seen. The garment, along with the black high heels she wore, drew even more attention to her shapely legs. He stood watching as she constantly lifted one foot from her left shoe, flexed her toes, then slid her foot back into the stiletto. She performed the movement with almost robotic precision and grace.

    Aware of Doyle's prying glance, she turned so that her back was towards him.

    He looked at his watch.

    There was less than a minute before Neville was due to phone.

    He'd get an engaged signal. As simple as that. He wouldn't detonate a bomb for that.

    Would he?

    Doyle licked his lips anxiously.

    Time was almost up.

    
Pull them away from the phones. Do it now.

    
All of them?

    The counter terrorist moved slowly from one foot to the other, the movement almost imperceptible.

    Lisa watched him and giggled. To her it looked as if he was swaying gently back and forth like a tree in a breeze.

    Doyle looked at his watch again.

    Neville wouldn't detonate a bomb just because he got an engaged signal.

    
Can you be so sure? Do you want to risk it?

    Doyle pulled the Beretta free (fuck it, this was becoming a habit) and held it in the direction of the four phone users.

    'Get away from the phones, now,' he shouted.

    The quartet seemed to turn simultaneously.

    The youth in the Chelsea shirt dropped the receiver and ran.

    The woman with the large suitcase screamed.

    The man in the suit stood motionless, the receiver gripped so tightly in his hand that Doyle feared he would snap it in two.

    The Asian girl's eyes bulged wildly in their sockets, her lips trying to form words but nothing would come out.

    Other eyes turned towards the noise. Other eyes saw Doyle and the pointing gun.

    'Get away from the phones,' he ordered.

    'Please don't,' the woman with the suitcase blubbed. 'Take what you want.' She was pushing her handbag towards him.

    'Just get away from the phone,' Doyle said, lowering his voice, glancing around, noticing that other people on the concourse were running towards exits in an effort to escape this long-haired madman.

    Lisa looked on in bewilderment.

    She could hear the screaming. She saw the looks of terror on people's faces.

    And when she turned, she was the first to see two uniformed policemen running towards them.