Knife Edge Read online

  ***

  'Jesus,' hissed Garside as the Astra sped through the aftermath of the explosion.

  He could feel the heat through his open window, smell the stink of petrol which was spilling out across the road like fiery tentacles.

  The motorcycle officer was lying flat on the road, blood spurting from his hand.

  Thick black smoke was billowing upwards in a miniature mushroom cloud, hovering over the burning bike like a man-made storm cloud.

  The second police car swept past in the Astra's wake.

  'Officer down,' shouted Garside into the radio. 'Suspect turning into Guildford Street. He's heading for Russell Square.'

  12.18 P.M.

  It reminded Doyle of a mausoleum.

  Empty of people, apart from those in uniform, Euston was like some vast, futuristic sepulchre.

  The virtual silence only added to the illusion. Doyle could hear the sound of his own boot heels on the concourse as he walked.

  Where to begin?

  There were so many places Neville could have hidden the bomb. For a start they had no idea of its size or weight, no clue as to where the ex-para might have secreted it. What also worried Doyle was that they had no clue as to what kind of bomb it was.

  Radio controlled. Mercury switch. Tremor activated.

  Not a fucking clue.

  The counter terrorist glanced at his watch.

  All they did know was that it would be going off in under fifteen minutes.

  The lower levels of the station had already been searched. The dogs had found nothing.

  If the bomb was here, it was on the concourse somewhere.

  There was a John Menzies shop to his left.

  The counter terrorist stepped inside, glancing swiftly around at row after row of books and magazines. The bomb could be behind any of them.

  Doyle stuck out a hand and swept the top shelf of books away, scattering them on the floor.

  He did the same with the next. And the next.

  Five rows of paperbacks ended up beneath his feet.

  The shelves were empty. No bomb.

  He repeated his actions with the other shelves.

  Nothing.

  As he turned to his right he saw two men hurrying up the ramp which led to the suburban platform. Both of them were leading sniffer dogs.

  'Have you checked in here?' Doyle shouted, attracting their attention.

  The two men let the dogs loose and they scuttled into the shop, snouts twitching.

  Doyle moved on towards the cafe on the other side of the station.

  There were uniformed men moving about inside it, some pausing every so often, kneeling to check under the tables.

  Further along the concourse was a branch of Tie Rack. Doyle hurried towards it, past a coffee stall. The aroma of freshly roasted beans seemed pleasantly out of place amidst the confusion.

  As he walked he glanced around him.

  Neville could have planted this bomb weeks earlier. His actions weren't the hasty, desperate deeds of a madman. Everything he'd done so far had been planned. Methodical. There was a strategy at work here.

  The other bombs had probably been planted around the same time.

  Wherever the hell they might be?

  Doyle reached Tie Rack and moved briskly through it, opening drawers, pulling out the contents, convinced, even as he searched, that he was looking in the wrong place.

  But where to look?

  Where could a bomb lie undiscovered for weeks, possibly even months, in a location so crammed with people every day?

  He looked across at the toilets, vaulted the barrier and walked in.

  There was water dripping somewhere, the steady plink, plink an accompaniment to the counter terrorist's footfalls.

  The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Doyle and he almost managed a smile.

  For years he'd cheated death at the hands of the IRA, terrorists, organised crime and Christ alone knew who else and yet now his life was threatened by one of his own.

  By a British soldier.

  What all his enemies had failed to do might be accomplished by a man he would have called an ally.

  How side-splittingly, jaw-droppingly hilarious.

  He pushed open the door of the first cubicle.

  How ironic.

  How fucking ironic.

  Doyle took a step inside, ignoring the graffitti on the walls and door, the puddle of piss on the floor.

  He flipped open the cistern and looked inside.

  Empty.

  He moved into the next cubicle.

  The stench was appalling. So strong he almost retched.

  'What's wrong with flushing it, you cunt,' he murmured, trying not to look into the clogged bowl.

  He pushed off the lid of the second cistern.

  Nothing.

  He could still hear the sound of water dripping.

  Doyle moved to the next cubicle.

  Thirteen minutes until detonation.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  He pushed the lid of the third cistern away and looked in.

  Fuck all.

  You're clutching at straws but then what else is there to do?

  One bomb an hour, Doyle mused.

  When? Where?

  He dug in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one, sucking hard on it.

  One an hour and you can't even find the first one.

  He moved to the next cubicle.

  12.21 P.M.

  'Where the hell does he think he's going?' PC Garside mused aloud as the police car sped along in pursuit of the fleeing motorbike.

  Brenner, still hunched over the wheel, didn't answer, his only concern being keeping Neville in sight.

  ***

  The ex-para glanced over his shoulder and saw the pursuing vehicles, sirens blaring, lights flashing brightly.

  Russell Square was just up ahead.

  Neville smiled.

  He eased up on the throttle slightly, the needle of the bike's speedo slipping towards forty.

  ***

  Thirty-five.

  'He's slowing down,' Brenner said triumphantly.

  Thirty.

  'We've got the fucker,' the driver snarled.

  Twenty-five.

  He saw Neville reach behind him, flip open one of the top boxes.

  Brenner pressed down harder on the accelerator.

  Behind him, the other police car was also drawing nearer.

  Neville was coming up to a comer, guiding the bike almost gracefully around it into Southampton Row.

  As he straightened up he pulled something from the top box.

  'Oh Jesus,' gasped Garside.

  He saw the Steyr gripped firmly in the ex-para's fist.

  Brenner saw it too and all he could think to do was accelerate.

  Ram the bastard.

  Knock him off before he opens fire.

  Before he…

  The first fusillade drilled holes right across the front of the Astra, blasting out both headlights, puncturing the radiator grille in several places and smashing in the windscreen.

  Glass flew back into the car and both men tried to shield their faces from the projectile shards.

  Garside shouted in pain as one slit his left cheek to the bone.

  Other fragments of the shattered crystal peppered his hands like translucent grapeshot, pieces sticking in the flesh.

  Brenner struggled to control the car which skidded madly across the street.

  The shriek of burning tyres was instantly eclipsed by the staccato rattle of a second burst from the subgun.

  Bullets struck the car once more.

  Brenner was slammed back in his chair as one of the 9mm slugs powered into his chest.

  It felt as if he'd been struck by a hot hammer.

  The bullet tore through him, burst from his back and lodged in the driver's seat.

  He slumped forward over the wheel, still conscious, bleeding badly.

  Garside grabbed for the wheel, try
ing to keep the spinning vehicle under control.

  There was a terrifying impact from behind as the second police car rammed the first, the metal of its chassis simply buckling. The front bumper tore away in the impact.

  ***

  Neville glanced once again over his shoulder and saw the two stricken emergency vehicles, the second ploughing into a parked car as the driver wrestled with the wheel.

  ***

  In the Astra, Garside shouted in horror as he felt the car flip.

  It struck the right-hand kerb doing thirty, its momentum causing the two offside wheels to rise off the ground.

  In one manic second, the Astra was on its side.

  Garside fell against his companion, looking down at Brenner who was bleeding badly from the bullet wound in his chest. Blood bubbled on his lips every time he tried to breathe through his mouth.

  The driver of the second car, his head split from hairline to eyebrow, staggered from the vehicle clutching the wound, blood pouring through his fingers.

  He stood in the centre of the road glancing around him.

  Shocked. Dazed.

  Garside pushed his way through the shattered windscreen of the Astra and fell forward onto the pavement.

  His head was spinning. He knew he was going to pass out.

  People were walking towards him, as if in slow motion.

  He could see the other wrecked police car, the driver now on his knees in the road, his head bloodied, his companion still slumped in the passenger seat, motionless.

  Garside wondered if the man was dead.

  He glanced back into the car and saw Brenner, head lolling uselessly on one side, blood dripping from his mouth.

  And somewhere, it sounded like a million miles away, he heard the crackle of the radio.

  'Puma three, come in, over.'

  The world was spinning before him. His cheek hurt where the glass had cut it and, when he looked at his hands, he saw that they were like red gloves, pieces of glass sticking out of the flesh in many places.

  'Puma three, come in, over.'

  The voice on the radio was insistent.

  Garside didn't care.

  There was nothing he could do about it.

  The people around him were still moving in slow motion but they seemed to be running now.

  Some of them.

  'Puma three.'

  Fuck off, Garside thought.

  He fell forward onto his face, the stink of burned rubber and petrol still strong in his nostrils.

  We lost him, he thought, but the words wouldn't form on his lips.

  We fucking lost him.

  Garside blacked out.

  Of Neville there was no sign.

  12.26 P.M.

  As Doyle emerged from the men's toilet on Euston station he caught sight of DI Calloway.

  The policeman was standing talking to three uniformed men, one of whom was a fireman. As Doyle approached the little gathering the uniformed men scurried away towards the front of the building.

  'We're not going to find it in time,' Calloway said flatly. 'I've given the order to get everyone off the station.'

  Doyle nodded.

  'Even if we did find it now there wouldn't be time to defuse it,' the DI continued. 'The fucker's won, hasn't he?'

  'It's only the first round,' Doyle said quietly. 'There's a long way to go.'

  Calloway allowed himself a sigh.

  'No luck with the dogs?' Doyle asked, glancing first at his watch then at the clock high above them on the Arrivals/Departures board.

  Calloway shook his head. 'We didn't have long enough.'

  'I think we did,' Doyle said. 'Neville knew we'd come here. He knew we'd trace that call. It's all part of the game.'

  'Some fucking game. What makes you so sure?'

  'I told you before, I know how he thinks.'

  'Well, it's a pity you can't read his fucking mind. Maybe we'd have found that bomb.'

  'Maybe,' Doyle mused.

  As he glanced around he saw more and more officers leaving the station. It seemed an orderly if somewhat speedy retreat.

  'Doyle. What if the bomb isn't here?' Calloway said anxiously.

  'Then we're in deep shit. Because if we can't find this one, chances are we won't be able to find the others either.'

  'Could he be bluffing about the others?'

  'What do you think?' Doyle began walking towards the exit. 'Come on, let's get out of here.'

  They were among the last to leave the building, Doyle glancing around at the deserted station. At the shops, the ticket offices, the cafes.

  'Where is it, you bastard?' he murmured under his breath.

  As they stepped from the main doors, Doyle noticed that the gardens and concrete expanse which fronted the terminus were deserted, but the streets on either side and beyond the high hedge at the front were clogged with emergency vehicles of all kinds.

  Fire engines. Ambulances. Police cars.

  'We closed off all roads within a radius of half a mile,' Calloway briefed him. 'Just in case.'

  'Any news on Neville?'

  'He got away. We've got descriptions of him though, and the motorbike he was riding. We've even got the reg number. It's only a matter of time before we get him.'

  'You sound very confident,' Doyle said, reaching for his cigarettes.

  'He's put four of my fucking men in hospital, one of them is critical. We'll get him. He can't hide forever,' Calloway said angrily.

  'He doesn't want to hide.'

  The two men walked down the flight of stone steps that led into Eversholt Street.

  'I thought you said you'd get him,' Calloway chided.

  'I will. Whether I get him in time is another matter. He's got seven more bombs to play with after this one.' Doyle looked at his watch.

  Almost time.

  'Someone like Neville knows how to disappear in a big city,' he told the DI. 'Fifty thousand coppers couldn't find him if he doesn't want to be found.'

  'But you can?'

  Doyle didn't answer.

  He glanced again at his watch.

  Two minutes to detonation.

  They waited.

  12.31 P.M.

  She realised that the smell was coming from the man beside her.

  Cathy Cremer wrinkled her nose and glanced at the man who was flipping through the racks of compact discs.

  He was in his late twenties, as she was, dressed in faded jeans which hung lower on his hips than they should. Especially when the T-shirt he wore was so short. Cathy glanced down and saw that more than the requisite amount of bum cleavage was on view.

  It was all she could do to stop herself laughing.

  However, the smell helped.

  She tried to concentrate on the CDs which she herself was flipping through, but the overpowering stench of body odour finally became too much for her and she stepped away from the man, shooting him one final disgusted glance.

  She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her jacket and wiped her nose, the smell of freshly laundered linen helping to dispel the stink of the individual now standing opposite her. She read the slogan printed on his T-shirt. i'm too sexy for this shirt it proclaimed in bright red letters.

  Cathy finally managed a snigger.

  She tried to concentrate on choosing more of the discs but found that a tall, blonde girl with a mountainous back-pack was blocking her path to the discs labelled pop and rock.

  Cathy moved further down the racks. She'd already selected four discs from the discount section of Tower Records in Piccadilly. That added up to about three hours of listening time, she mused. Scarcely enough to fill the time it would take to reach Singapore.

  She shuddered even as she thought of the word, of the journey.

  Singapore. Then on to Australia.

  Her parents had moved there three years ago. This forthcoming trip would be the first time she'd seen them since they'd emigrated, intent on spending their retirement in sunnier climes.

  The
y'd sent her half the fair. The rest she'd saved from her salary. It had been a struggle sometimes over the past three years but her present job paid well and the final instalment of cash for the trip had been easier to accumulate.

  She'd worked on the switchboard of the Meridien Hotel in Piccadilly for just over ten months now. It was good pay and the work wasn't hard. She'd be sorry to leave but there was no way they were going to keep her job open for the two months she was away visiting her parents.

  Her sister Joanne, who was to accompany her on the trip, didn't have the same problem with work. Two years older than Cathy, she worked in the A amp;R department of EMI Records. Personal assistant to the head of the department. The job was better paid and a damn sight more flexible. But Cathy had little doubt she'd find another job upon her return. At the moment that was the furthest thing from her mind. The trip was less than a week away. Everything it was possible to pack was already jammed into her two suitcases; she was now stocking up on items to kill time on the twenty-four-hour flight.

  She picked up a couple more CDs, tapping her foot in time to the music that was playing inside the store.

  She glanced at her purchases.

  A pretty wide range. Something for all occasions, she thought, smiling to herself. Madonna. A compilation Country and Western album. Queen. Guns 'n Roses' first album and a Kate Bush compilation.

  What else?

  She moved as swiftly as she could between the racks. The shop was crowded as usual. Cathy remembered she needed a new set of headphones for her Discman so she headed towards the stairs leading down to the basement.

  Her heels clicked loudly on the metal steps as she descended, almost dropping her purchases when she reached the bottom.

  The music playing in the basement was different. Loud, abrasive. Jungle music.

  It belonged in the jungle, thought Cathy as the simplistic racket filled her ears.

  There was another section nearby boasting bargains, so she paused to flip through the array of discs, smiling as she found one marked 'Songs that Won the War'. She'd get it for her mum. A present.

  Cathy glanced at her watch.

  She should be getting back to work.