Knife Edge Read online

  'I can't,' Julie said falteringly. 'How can I tell her what I just told you? That her father isn't really her father? Jesus Christ, Ken doesn't even know she's his.'

  Doyle shook his head slowly.

  'Look,' he began. 'I'm not asking you to tell her -or Ken – what you told me, or anything else about this whole fucking mess. Just tell Lisa she's going to see her father… At least the geezer she thinks is her father.'

  Julie eyed him furiously.

  'Tell her I've got to take her,' Doyle continued. 'Tell her she's going to have to do what I say.' He smiled. 'You can even tell her to trust me.'

  5.46 P.M.

  'This is crazy,' said DS Colin Mason, pacing the office. 'There must be something else we can do instead of just sitting here and waiting for that fucking headcase to ring.'

  'Such as?' Calloway enquired.

  'All this sitting around,' Mason continued irritably. 'The waiting. He's doing it on purpose. Neville's playing fucking games with us.'

  The harsh metallic sound of an automatic being cocked caused him to spin round.

  Doyle held the 92F burst-fire in his hands, examining the sleek lines of the pistol before pushing it back into its shoulder holster.

  'If he frisks you, he'll find that,' Calloway pointed out.

  'If he gets that close,' Mason added. 'He might just blow your head off from a distance and then take the kid.'

  In answer, Doyle pushed down the top of his cowboy boot slightly to reveal the ankle holster.

  He tapped the butt of the PD Star then pulled the boot back up.

  'He won't find that,' Doyle said with an air of certainty.

  'Proper Secret Agent, aren't you, Doyle?' Mason chided.

  The counter terrorist fixed Mason in an unwavering stare until the policeman finally turned away and continued pacing.

  'All this waiting about,' the DS said. 'It's like-'

  'Waiting for a bomb to go off?' Doyle offered.

  'That's not funny, Doyle,' Mason growled.

  'Did he say what time he was ringing back – he didn't, did he?' Doyle mused.

  Calloway shook his head.

  'He could keep us sitting here for the next three or four hours if he wanted to,' the DI said.

  Doyle glanced at his watch.

  'I don't think so,' he murmured. 'He says he's going to let the big one off at eight and I reckon he will.'

  'Even if he gets his daughter back?' Calloway said.

  'He's stalling,' Doyle continued. 'He could set it off anyway, even if he does get her. We don't know how big the thing is. A hundred, a hundred and fifty pounds. It'd be one hell of a fucking diversion.'

  Doyle had said nothing to the two policemen about his talk with Julie Neville. At least she'd agreed to allow her daughter to be taken along by Doyle, but that was all.

  They also knew nothing of the counter terrorist's attempts to contact Major John Wetherby.

  Twice Doyle had attempted to ring the Army Intelligence officer but, on both occasions, Wetherby had been unavailable, not at his desk or some other bullshit excuse.

  Doyle had slammed down the phone the second time.

  Wetherby needed to know what was happening. It was as simple as that.

  Doyle had decided to check in.

  Old habits died hard.

  Besides, Doyle had wanted to tell Wetherby that he was closing in on Neville and also warn him that there might well be some more civilian casualties. In particular, an eight-year-old girl.

  The phone rang and Calloway grabbed it.

  'You took your time, Neville,' he said, switching the phone to speaker.

  'Right, just listen,' Neville began. 'Doyle, can you hear me?'

  'Get on with it,' the counter terrorist called back.

  'I'll keep it simple,' Neville said. 'When I said I wanted Doyle to bring Lisa to me, I meant Doyle. ind Doyle alone. No back-up. No plain-clothes coppers following at a discreet distance. If I even smell a copper there'll be another explosion. Got it? Now this is how we play the game. Doyle, I'm going to give you locations. Each one is a phone box. I'm going to bounce you all over London to make sure you're not being followed. First one phone box, then another, then another, until I'm satisfied. When I am, I'll give you the location to bring Lisa to me. This is how it works. I tell you which phone box to get to, the phone rings five times. If it isn't answered after five rings I'll detonate a bomb. If anyone else other than you answers it I'll detonate a bomb. Got that?'

  'Got it.'

  'Right, here goes then and, Doyle, you take good care of my little girl,' Neville rasped. 'First phone box is an easy one. Get to the public phones at St James's tube station. Move it. You've got eight minutes.'

  The line went dead.

  5.51 P.M.

  I don't fucking need this.

  Doyle slowed his pace slightly, glancing round to see that the little girl was having trouble keeping up with him.

  Playing Neville's game alone would be bad enough, but I can do without the kid.

  'Come on,' he said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible.

  That was how you were supposed to sound when you were talking to kids, wasn't it?

  Lisa scuttled along beside him, bumping into him when he stopped hurriedly at a corner.

  She almost overbalanced but Doyle shot out a hand and pulled her along with him.

  'Where are we going?' she asked.

  'Didn't your mum tell you? We're going to see your dad.'

  The bloke you think is your dad, at any rate.

  'Mum said I had to do what you told me.'

  'That's right.'

  They reached the entrance to St James's tube station.

  There were a number of people climbing the steps from below and more than one glanced inquisitively at the man with the long brown hair and the stubble-covered face as he pulled the little girl in the jeans and blue cardigan along with him.

  Perhaps a little too roughly sometimes.

  Doyle hurried down the steps, Lisa struggling along behind.

  Come on, come on.

  He helped her down the last two stairs, eyes scanning the concourse for the phones.

  To his left.

  He strode towards them, Lisa in tow.

  Two phones. One was out of order.

  Doyle leaned against the working one and pulled cigarettes from his jacket, jamming one between his lips but not lighting it.

  'You'll get a cough,' said Lisa, looking up at him.

  Doyle looked puzzled.

  'If you smoke, you get a cough,' she continued. 'They told us that at school. I told Mum she should give up.'

  'Did your teacher tell you that smoking was bad for you?'

  Lisa nodded.

  'Well, you tell your teacher from me that non-smokers die every day.' He smiled crookedly.

  The phone rang.

  Doyle snatched it up and pressed the receiver to his ear.

  'Yeah,' he said.

  'Doyle?'

  'You know bloody well it is.'

  'Is Lisa with you?' Neville demanded.

  'Yes.'

  'Let me speak to her.'

  'This wasn't part of the plan.'

  'Who's making the fucking rules, Doyle? Let me speak to her,' Neville barked.

  Doyle pushed the phone towards the child, who had trouble reaching it because the cord was so short.

  Doyle lifted her up.

  'Is that my princess?' Neville said.

  'Dad. Where are you?' Lisa said excitedly.

  'I'm waiting for you,' he told her. 'Let me speak to the man who's with you and we'll talk later.'

  She handed the phone to Doyle, who put her down once more.

  'Satisfied?' Doyle snapped into the phone.

  'Listen to me. The next stop is Oxford Circus, there's a phone box outside Top Shop. It should take twenty minutes by tube. It means your friends won't be able to hear you while you're in the tunnels though.'

  'What the fuck are you talking about?' Doyle his
sed.

  'Watch your language in front of my daughter, Doyle,' Neville said reproachfully. 'I know you're in contact with the police, I wouldn't have expected anything else. I thought you might wear a wire but that's a bit primitive, isn't it? What have you got? A mobile?'

  Doyle exhaled deeply. 'Yeah, full marks, Sherlock.'

  'Well, just make sure they don't get over-eager. Like I said, if I see a copper, Bang! Now move it, you've got twenty minutes to get to the next phone box.'

  5.57 P.M.

  The train from St James's to Victoria had been crowded. The walkways and platform leading to the Victoria line had been busy too, but the train which was now heading towards Oxford Circus was so jam-packed with people Doyle found it hard to breathe.

  Beside him, Lisa clung to his belt, fascinated it seemed by the large man who was seated opposite her, his bald head gleaming beneath the lights inside the tube.

  He was wearing a dark suit and he was clearly hot. Beads of perspiration were forming on his hairless pate and Lisa watched as one droplet edged its way slowly past his temple and began a slow journey down his cheek towards his jaw.

  As the train slid to a halt, Doyle turned, trying to duck slightly to read the station name on the plate on the tunnel wall. Green Park.

  One more stop.

  No one moved as the doors opened.

  No one got off.

  Instead, the crush inside the train became even more uncomfortable as those at Green Park pushed and shoved their way into the already tightly packed mass inside the carriage.

  Lisa was nearly knocked off her feet by a tall man in faded black jeans and a T-shirt. He seemed not to notice her and she moved closer to Doyle, who was gripping one of the overhead bars as tightly as he could.

  The man in the black jeans was wearing a Walkman and the irritating rattle of the music he was listening to seemed to fill the carriage.

  Behind Doyle stood a woman in her mid-forties. Her hair was impossibly immobile, as if the coiffure had been moulded then welded to her head. She was wearing trousers and a pair of trainers which looked dazzlingly white. She was holding a number of shopping bags, one of which was digging uncomfortably into Doyle's back.

  He looked irritably at her, gazing into her eyes through her glasses.

  She stared back for a moment then turned to the man standing with her.

  He was wearing a baseball cap with nike emblazoned across the front, wisps of white hair poking out from either side.

  'Are you OK, honey?' he said, in a loud accented voice, which attracted a number of stares from other passengers.

  Fucking Yanks, Doyle thought.

  The doors slid shut and the train moved off.

  The carriage smelled of perspiration and perfume. Conflicting odours. There was a hint of garlic in the musty air too. Doyle looked around at his fellow passengers as if seeking the culprit.

  Further down the carriage a young woman wearing leggings and a polo-neck sweater was sweeping a hand through her long auburn hair, trying to readjust her position as the train moved away. Doyle studied her face briefly then found his gaze straying to her breasts. Beneath the sweater they were unfettered by a bra. He could see the outline of her nipples pushing against the material.

  Typical. I'm wedged up against some fat Yank and a bastard who smells of garlic. Why not her?

  He held the woman in his gaze for a few seconds longer. The train lurched to one side and Lisa gripped more tightly to Doyle to prevent herself overbalancing. Not that she would have fallen anyway, the other travellers were too tightly wedged in the carriage to allow her to overbalance.

  Christ, he hated crowds. Hated being so close to other people.

  He rarely travelled by tube and, if he did, he tried to make sure it was after rush-hour.

  Not like now. Right in the middle of it.

  Doyle glanced at his watch.

  The train slowed down.

  Approaching the station.

  It stopped in the tunnel.

  What the fuck was going on?

  There were a number of groans from inside the carriage.

  The American woman with the shopping bags dug him in the back once more and this time Doyle spun round and glared at her.

  'Why have we stopped?' Lisa asked.

  Doyle didn't answer.

  'Why have we stopped?' she persisted.

  'I don't know,' he snapped back, the vehemence of his reply causing a number of people to look in his direction.

  The train bumped forward a few yards, stopped again then continued on its way.

  As it slid into Oxford Circus station, Doyle was already pushing his way towards the door, pulling Lisa along with him.

  The doors opened and Doyle barged out, through the passengers waiting to board.

  Lisa felt his hand gripping hers tightly. A little too tightly.

  It hurt.

  She tried to twist her hand inside his but the sweat on his palm made his skin slippery.

  As he pulled at her in an attempt to rush her through the heaving throng on the platform, her hand slipped free of his.

  Someone bumped into her, buffeted her away from him.

  Doyle felt her hand slide from his.

  He spun round.

  The passengers both embarking and alighting seemed to swell into one huge amorphous mass. Faces passed before him as he scanned the crowd frantically for Lisa.

  6.08 P.M.

  'Shit,' he snarled, pushing past a woman with a baby who was climbing on.

  He scanned the faces around him, then lowered his gaze.

  Where the hell was she?

  Doyle pushed a youth in an rem sweatshirt aside and heard the boy mutter something under his breath.

  The walkway which led across to the Bakerloo line platform was a few feet ahead of him.

  What if Lisa had wandered up there?

  He shoved uncaringly through the passengers, finally catching sight of her.

  She had backed up against the wall and was standing still, looking up with wide-eyed bewilderment at the sea of people surrounding her.

  But she didn't move.

  Sensible kid.

  Doyle reached her and swept her up in his arms, unsure how he should hold her. He heard her grunt in discomfort as he squeezed her a little too hard.

  'A man bumped into me,' she said almost apologetically. 'I couldn't hold on to your hand.'

  Doyle lifted her on to his shoulders and began striding through the crowd.

  Lisa smiled now, perched on those powerful shoulders, happy with her vantage point. She could see over the heads of the other people on the platform.

  'Hold on to my jacket,' he told her and she gripped the leather collar, smiling as Doyle hurried through the crowd.

  When they reached the escalators he lifted her down again and she stood beside him as the moving stairs rose upwards.

  Doyle looked at his watch.

  No time to stand still.

  He grabbed Lisa's hand and they began climbing, watched by a number of people, one or two of whom were a little concerned at how difficult the child in the jeans was finding it to keep up with the longhaired man in the leather jacket and the cowboy boots.

  Doyle reached the top of the escalator and headed for the exit, pausing only briefly to ensure that Lisa was still with him. He ushered her through the automatic gates and squeezed through behind her.

  'There,' he said, pointing to the flight of steps which led up towards Oxford Street and, with the little girl still struggling to stay with him, he began to climb.

  Lisa paused halfway up, stopping to look at a man who was sitting cross-legged and shoeless on the steps.

  His hair was long, so dirty it looked as if it was matted into dreadlocks. He wore a filthy grey overcoat which was open, revealing a body just weeks away from almost complete emaciation.

  A dirty jumper was lying in front of him, folded to form a kind of hollow at its centre. In that hole lay a few coins.

  'Come on,'
Doyle said, seeing Lisa staring at the tramp as if hypnotised.

  He smiled at her, his teeth whiter than they should have been for one so dirty.

  She remained gazing at the man.

  'Lisa, for Christ's sake, come on,' Doyle snapped, ignoring the disapproving glance of a woman who passed him on the stairs.

  Finally Lisa dug one tiny hand into the pocket of her jeans and produced two coins.

  Doyle watched as she dropped them on to the reeking jumper.

  Lisa bounded up the steps and joined him, slipping her hand into his. Together they emerged into Oxford Street.

  Top Shop was directly opposite.

  Doyle could see the phone box.

  He urged Lisa to the roadside, waited for a gap in the traffic, then swept her up into his arms once more and darted across.

  She giggled as he put her down, trying to grip his hand again but Doyle pulled away, moving towards the phone box.

  There was a woman standing close to it, pulling a phone card from her purse.

  The phone began to ring.

  6.15 P.M.

  Doyle stepped in front of the woman who shot him an angry glance.

  'Excuse me,' she said, reproachfully, standing and watching as he snatched up the receiver.

  'Doyle,' he said.

  Silence at the other end.

  'Neville, can you hear me?'

  'I can hear you.' Neville's voice came down the line. 'Well done. I want to speak to Lisa.'

  'I was here first, you know,' the woman continued from behind Doyle.

  Still he ignored her, instead pulling Lisa to him, handing her the receiver.

  'Hello, sweetheart,' Neville said to her, his tone lightening.

  'Dad, I just saw this man and he had no money,' Lisa babbled. 'So I gave him some of my pocket money.'

  'You're a good girl.'

  'I said, "I was here first",' the woman persisted, tapping Doyle on the shoulder.

  He turned and looked her squarely in the eye, the ferocity of his stare causing her to take a step back.

  'I think he was hungry, Dad,' Lisa continued. 'Perhaps he can get something to eat now.'

  'Good girl. Let me speak to the man with you again,' Neville instructed, waiting while Lisa handed the receiver back to Doyle.