Knife Edge Page 17

Drive around London, spot the three people you need to find just like that.

  Piece of piss.

  The car in front moved off, Doyle drove on, cranking up the volume on his cassette.

  '… Living in the fast lane is easy, 'til you run out of road…'

  He tapped a finger on the wheel in time to the thumping beat of the music.

  '… Friends will turn to strangers when you're out of control…'

  As he brought the car to a halt at traffic lights, the counter terrorist scanned those who walked before him.

  Will the Neville family please step forward?

  Again he looked at his watch. It was becoming a habit. One which he seemed to have acquired the longer the day went on. And with good reason.

  In just over thirty minutes, if Neville didn't speak to his daughter, he would detonate another bomb.

  God alone knew where, and God had fuck all to do with it.

  Bomb.

  Doyle suppressed a smile.

  Just like old times, eh?

  Belfast. Londonderry.

  London.

  What was the difference?

  People had died, more would die.

  Trying to find an armed and dangerous man. It had a ring of familiarity to it, didn't it?

  Welcome familiarity?

  The lights changed to green and Doyle turned left, guiding the car along the Victoria Embankment, the river and the pedestrians to his left-hand side now.

  He sucked one last lungful of smoke from the cigarette and jammed it into the already badly overflowing ashtray.

  Immediately he lit another.

  '… It's a hard life to love…' thundered the cassette.

  Doyle shook his head.

  They weren't going to do it.

  It was as simple as that.

  Barring a miracle, there would be another explosion at five.

  A miracle.

  Julie and Lisa Neville were probably out of the city by now.

  Long gone.

  Doyle slowed down for the next set of lights.

  Come on, think. Where would Neville go? You're supposed to know how he works. After all, he's not that different to you, is he?

  Finding Neville was one thing. Finding his wife and kid was another.

  Doyle looked at his watch again.

  'Shit,' he murmured under his breath.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  He'd known when he climbed into the Datsun that he'd been clutching at straws. That cruising the streets of the capital in search of a missing woman and her child smacked of desperation, but what the hell else was there to do? Besides, he needed to be alone for a while. He'd been around others too long already today.

  He needed the solitude which had been so much a part of his life for so long. He needed no company.

  Not even Georgie?

  Her image flashed fleetingly through his mind and he blinked hard to drive it away.

  It persisted stubbornly for a few seconds longer than he would have liked, then was gone.

  He sucked hard on the cigarette.

  The traffic moved on.

  So did time.

  4.32 P.M.

  The East London Cemetery stretched for roughly half a mile towards all compass points, one of many resting places that seemed like green oases within the desert of concrete, brick and glass that comprised the capital.

  Separated from the memorial recreation ground alongside it by a high privet hedge, the cemetery was the usual clutter of headstones, some old, some new, of well-kept and uncared-for graves. Of resting places for those admirably old and some pitifully young.

  At its centre was the crematorium. The hub of an unmoving wheel.

  A network of paths, some gravel, some Tarmac, wound through the cemetery like arteries. Elsewhere, walkways had been fashioned across grass by the passage of so many feet.

  So many mourners.

  There was a number of wooden benches too, most of them placed close to the taps which also dotted the necropolis.

  Kenneth Baxter walked slowly past one of these taps, glancing at it as it dripped water on to the gravel below.

  A slight breeze was blowing now and it brought with it the scent of flowers.

  He glanced at the graves flanking the path as he walked, hands dug into the pockets of his jeans. Many had flowers on them, some still wrapped in Cellophane, which crackled whenever the breeze blew too strongly.

  He saw some rose petals skitter across the path ahead of him, propelled by a gust of wind.

  A middle-aged woman was filling a plastic watering can from one of the taps.

  Baxter watched her as she lugged the heavy article back towards a nearby grave and filled the metal vase on the plinth. Then she carefully began arranging carnations in the vase.

  The tap continued to drip.

  One droplet for each tear shed in this place?

  Baxter continued walking, his pace slow and even. But his pace didn't match the expression on his face.

  As he walked he looked constantly back and forth, eyes scanning the cemetery.

  Searching.

  Had he looked behind him he wouldn't have found anything too unusual about the young man in the jeans and T-shirt who had just entered the graveyard.

  ***

  PC Rob Wells saw Baxter ahead of him but, instead of following, he turned off on one of the gravel paths at his right-hand side and made his way slowly along it, his trainers crunching on the bed of loose stone.

  He walked slowly, apparently unconcerned by anything, convinced that Baxter hadn't spotted him but, more importantly, that his quarry hadn't realised he was a plain-clothes policeman.

  Wells saw Baxter turn off on to one of the secondary paths and the policeman cut across some grass to ensure he didn't lose sight of the older man.

  As he stepped on a grave, Wells apologised under his breath to the occupant, feeling stupid but also sorry to have disturbed the reverence he felt was due to the deceased.

  The graves in this part of the cemetery were older, many of them untended and overgrown. He glanced at a number of the headstones, many of which were cracked, moss having crept into the rents like gangrene into an open wound.

  Died 1923 proclaimed what little was readable of the inscription on one headstone.

  The stone was mottled, the pot which stood on the plinth rusted.

  Beside it was another which sported only the rotting stems of long-dead flowers and, as Wells passed, he could smell the cloying stench of rotting plants and stagnant water.

  Baxter sat down on one of the benches, legs stretched out, fingers intertwined on his stomach.

  Wells walked on, wondering if he should find a better vantage point, somewhere more secluded. He could always make out he was visiting a grave if he was spotted.

  But why the hell should he be spotted?

  He walked on, aware that his heart was beating a little faster.

  Wells saw Baxter rise.

  Saw him take two or three paces towards the newcomer.

  'Jesus,' he murmured under his breath, trying to avoid staring at Baxter.

  There were some trees up ahead to his left. Wells knew he had to reach them, use them as cover while he spoke into the two-way.

  Don't hurry, just stay calm.

  Baxter stood still and waited for the newcomer to approach him.

  From behind the cover of the largest tree, Wells pulled the two-way from his pocket and switched it on, his eyes still fixed on Baxter.

  'Mark, come in, it's me,' Wells said, keeping his voice low. 'You're not going to believe this.'

  4.46 P.M.

  'Are you sure?' said PC Mark Hagan, gripping the radio more tightly.

  'Come and have a look yourself if you don't believe me,' Wells snapped back. 'I'm standing here looking at them now. Baxter and Julie Neville. They're thirty feet away from me, for Christ's sake. Now call in. Quick.'

  'What about the kid?'

  'She's here too.'

  Hagan ran a han
d through his hair, sucking in a deep breath.

  'Stay close to them, Rob,' he said into the two-way.

  'I wasn't planning on going anywhere,' Wells assured him.

  'Bingo.'

  ***

  Calloway spun round to face his companion, a smile stretched across his face.

  'What is it?' Mason enquired.

  'Julie and Lisa Neville. We've got them,' the DI said triumphantly, still holding the phone to his ear. 'The East London Cemetery in Newham. One of the surveillance units watching Baxter just spotted them.'

  'What the hell is Julie Neville doing with Baxter?'

  'We'll find that out later. Right now we've got to get to the kid, she's got to be able to speak to Neville when he calls at five.'

  Mason looked at his watch.

  'We'll never do it in time,' he said, his breath coming in short gasps.

  'We've got to,' Calloway told him.

  'You'll never get her back to New Scotland Yard in time for Neville's call,' said Doyle, his eyes now fixed on the vehicles ahead of him. He was no longer interested in the pedestrians on either side. 'Is there some way you can patch his call through to one of your cars at the scene?'

  'We'll try,' Calloway answered.

  'Don't try. Fucking do it,' Doyle almost shouted, glancing at his watch.

  'There are more mobile units closing in on the cemetery now. They can't escape.'

  'You mean Julie Neville and her daughter aren't in custody yet?' Doyle said incredulously. 'How the fuck is the kid supposed to talk to her father if you haven't even grabbed her yet?'

  'If we move in too fast they could run for it. Julie Neville could escape again.'

  'And if you don't move fast enough Neville's going to detonate that bomb. Grab them, Calloway, for Christ's sake. Them and Baxter.'

  Doyle hit his horn as the car ahead of him hesitated at a green light.

  'Where are you now?'

  'Coming up to Westminster Bridge,' Doyle told Calloway. 'I'll be with you in about ten minutes. If I'm lucky.'

  He hit the horn again, almost nudging the Fiesta in front to one side in his haste.

  Kenneth Baxter and Julie Neville.

  What the fuck was going on?

  Doyle pressed down on the accelerator when he could, constantly striking the horn in an effort to move the traffic which clogged the road ahead of him.

  Again he looked at his watch.

  'No fucking way,' Doyle hissed, his tone edged.

  With frustration?

  With defeat?

  With the certainty that, this time, they were too late.

  4.51 P.M.

  They all heard the sirens.

  The strident wail seemed to converge from all directions, shattering the solitude of the cemetery.

  Julie Neville looked helplessly at Baxter, her eyes wide, almost imploring.

  Baxter himself had already turned and was heading towards the main entrance of the graveyard.

  Lisa grabbed her mother's hand, wondering what the noise signified.

  ***

  'What the hell's going on?' Wells hissed into the two-way, glancing at Baxter, then Julie and the child.

  'Arrest them, Rob, now,' Hagan told him. 'That's direct from the guv'nor. Take them.'

  Wells swallowed hard and advanced towards the trio who were moving rapidly along one of the Tarmac paths.

  'Stop,' Wells shouted, fumbling in his pocket for his ID. 'Police.'

  He brandished the wallet above his head and took a step towards the trio before him.

  Lisa moved closer to her mother.

  Baxter merely slowed his pace and looked at the young man in the jeans and T-shirt.

  Julie pulled her daughter tightly to her, a protective arm around her shoulder.

  'Just stay where you are,' Wells called, trying to hide the quiver in his voice. 'We just need to talk to you, Mrs Neville. You and your daughter.'

  'You keep away from my daughter,' Julie hissed at him.

  Baxter stepped up to join her.

  The sound of sirens was almost deafening now. They could all hear car doors being slammed and the thudding of many feet moving across the road outside the cemetery. There were shouts.

  Wells was still advancing, still waving his ID.

  'Nobody's going to hurt either of you,' he said, trying to inject as much reassurance as possible into his tone.

  Baxter looked towards the cemetery gates and saw uniformed policemen outside.

  'We need your daughter,' Wells said.

  'You're not giving her to him,' Julie said defiantly.

  Wells looked puzzled.

  'My husband wants her,' Julie continued. 'He's not going to get her and you're not going to help him.'

  The two-way in Wells' back pocket crackled urgently.

  'We haven't done anything wrong,' Julie told him.

  'We're not the criminals.'

  'I know that,' Wells told her.

  'What about them?' Baxter said, indicating the uniformed men now moving towards the cemetery gates. 'Do they know?'

  The radio crackled again.

  Wells swallowed hard.

  What now? Grab the kid?

  He licked his lips nervously.

  'We don't want to hurt you or your daughter,' he said. 'But we need your help. It's very important.'

  Lisa was holding tightly to Julie's leg, her eyes fixed on the young man moving steadily towards them.

  'Mum,' she said softly.

  'We need your help, that's all,' Wells repeated.

  'And if I refuse?'

  'There's nowhere for you to run now, Mrs Neville.' Wells held her gaze.

  Julie looked at him then down at her daughter. 'No one's going to hurt you,' Wells repeated. 'I promise you.'

  The radio hissed like an angry snake.

  'Please,' the policeman pleaded.

  Julie nodded.

  Thank Christ, Wells thought.

  'We've got to hurry,' he said anxiously.

  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.